LIBRARY 


SANTA  CRUZ 


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Gift 

In  Memory  of 
JAY  DWIGGINS,  JR. 


SANTA     CRUZ 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 


THE 
VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

FURTHER  STORIES  OF 

THE  FOUR  MILLION 

BY 

O.  HENRY 

Author  of  Cabbages  and  Kings,  The  Four  Million 
The  Trimmed  Lamp,  Heart  of  the  West,  etc. 


GARDEN  CITY        NEW  YORK 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

MCMXI 


Acknowledgment  is  made  to  the  New  York  World  and  to  Ainslee's 
Magazine  for  permission  to  republish  these  stories 


Copyright,  1908,  by  DouUeday,  Page  &  Company 
Published,  May,  1908 


Copyright,  1903,  1908,  by  Ainslee  Magazine  Company 
Copyright,  1904,  1905,  1906,  by  Press  Publishing  Company 


CONTENTS 

PAGfc 

THE  VOICE   OP  THE   CITY  3 

THE  COMPLETE  LIFE  OF  JOHN  HOPKINS  11 

A  LICKPENNY  LOVER  21 

DOUGHERTY'S    EYE-OPENER  31 

"LITTLE  SPECK  IN  GARNERED  FRUIT"  40 

THE   HARBINGER  49 

WHILE   THE   AUTO  WAITS  58 

A  COMEDY  IN   RUBBER  67 

ONE  THOUSAND  DOLLARS  75 

THE  DEFEAT  OF  THE  CITY  85 

THE   SHOCKS  OF  DOOM  95 

THE   PLUTONIAN  FIRE  105 

NEMESIS  AND  THE  CANDY  MAH  115 

SQUARING   THE    CIRCLE  125 

ROSES,   RUSES   AND   ROMANCE  132 

THE  CITY  OF  DREADFUL  NIGHT  141 

THE  EASTER  OF  THE  SOUL  149 

THE    FOOL-KILLER  157 

TRANSIENTS  IN  ARCADIA  169 

THE   RATHSKELLER  AND  THE   ROSE  178 

THE   CLARION   CALL  187 

EXTRADITED  FROM  BOHEMIA  199 

A  PHILISTINE  IN  BOHEMIA  209 

FROM  EACH  ACCORDING  TO  His  ABILITY  218 

THE   MEMENTO  $29 


p< 

THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY  - 

PS 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

TWENTY-FIVE  years  ago  the  school  children  used 
to  chant  their  lessons.  The  manner  of  their  delivery 
was  a  singsong  recitative  between  the  utterance  of  an 
Episcopal  minister  and  the  drone  of  a  tired  sawmill. 
I  mean  no  disrespect.  We  must  have  lumber  and 
sawdust. 

I  remember  one  beautiful  and  instructive  little 
lyric  that  emanated  from  the  physiology  class.  The 
most  striking  line  of  it  was  this : 

"  The  shin-bone  is  the  long-est  bone  in  the  hu-man 
bod-y." 

What  an  inestimable  boon  it  would  have  been  if 
all  the  corporeal  and  spiritual  facts  pertaining  to 
man  had  thus  been  tunefully  and  logically  inculcated 
in  our  youthful  minds !  But  what  we  gained  in 
anatomy,  music  and  philosophy  was  meagre. 

The  other  day  I  became  confused.  I  needed  a 
ray  of  light.  I  turned  back  to  those  school  days  for 
aid.  But  in  all  the  nasal  harmonies  we  whined  forth 
from  those  hard  benches  I  could  not  recall  one  that 
treated  of  the  voice  of  agglomerated  mankind. 

In  other  words,  of  the  composite  vocal  message  of 
massed  humanity. 

[3] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

In  other  words,  of  the  Voice  of  a  Big  City. 

Now,  the  individual  voice  is  not  lacking.  We  can 
understand  the  song  of  the  poet,  the  ripple  of  the 
brook,  the  meaning  of  the  man  who  wants  $5  until 
next  Monday,  the  inscriptions  on  the  tombs  of  the 
Pharaohs,  the  language  of  flowers,  the  "  step  lively  " 
of  the  conductor,  and  the  prelude  of  the  milk  cans  at 
4  A.M.  Certain  large-eared  ones  even  assert  that 
they  are  wise  to  the  vibrations  of  the  tympanum 
produced  by  concussion  of  the  air  emanating  from 
Mr.  H.  James.  But  who  can  comprehend  the  mean- 
ing of  the  voice  of  the  city? 

I  went  out  for  to  see. 

First,  I  asked  Aurelia.  She  wore  white  Swiss  and  a 
hat  with  corn  flowers  on  it,  and  ribbons  and  ends  of 
things  fluttered  here  and  there. 

"  Tell  me,"  I  said,  stammeringly,  for  I  have  no 
voice  of  my  own,  "  what  does  this  big — er — enormous 
— er — whopping  city  say?  It  must  have  a  voice  of 
some  kind.  Does  it  ever  speak  to  you?  How  do  you 
interpret  its  meaning?  It  is  a  tremendous  mass,  but  it 
must  have  a  key." 

"  Like  a  Saratoga  trunk?  "  asked  Aurelia. 

"  No,"  said  I.  "  Please  do  not  refer  to  the  lid.  I 
have  a  fancy  that  every  city  has  a  voice.  Each  one 
has  something  to  say  to  the  one  who  can  hear  it. 
What  does  the  big  one  say  to  you?" 

"  All  cities,"  said  Aurelia,  judicially,  "  say  the 
[4] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

same  tlr  ng.  When  they  get  through  saying  it 
there  is  an  echo  from  Philadelphia.  So,  they  are 
unanimous." 

"  Here  are  4,000,000  people,"  said  I,  scholastic- 
ally,  "  compressed  upon  an  island,  which  is  mostly 
lamb  surrounded  by  Wall  Street  water.  The  conjunc- 
tion of  so  many  units  into  so  small  a  space  must 
result  in  an  identity — or,  rather  a  homogeneity — 
that  finds  its  oral  expression  through  a  common  chan- 
nel. It  is,  as  you  might  say.  a  consensus  of  transla- 
tion, concentrating  in  a  crystallized,  general  idea 
which  reveals  itself  in  what  may  be  termed  the  Voice 
of  the  City.  Can  you  tell  me  what  it  is? 

Aurelia  smiled  wonderfully.  She  sat  on  the  Bigh 
stoop.  A  spray  of  insolent  ivy  bobbed  against  her 
right  ear.  A  ray  of  impudent  moonlight  flickered 
upon  her  nose.  But  I  was  adamant,  nickel- 
plated. 

"  I  must  go  and  find  out,"  I  said,  "  what  is  the  Voice 
of  this  city.  Other  cities  have  voices.  It  is  an  assign- 
ment. I  must  have  it.  New  York,"  I  continued,  in  a 
rising  tone,  "had  better  not  hand  me  a  cigar  and  say : 
'Old  man,  I  can't  talk  for  publication.'  No  other 
city  acts  in  that  way.  Chicago  says,  unhesitatingly, 
'I  will;'  Philadelphia  says,  'I  should;'  New  Orleans 
says,  'I  used  to ;'  Louisville  says,  'Don't  care  if  I  do ;' 
St.  Louis  says,  'Excuse  me;'  Pittsburg  says,  'Smoke 

up.'  Now,  New  York " 

[5] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

Aurelia  smiled. 

"  Very  well,"  said  I,  "  I  must  go  elsewhere  and  find 
out." 

I  went  into  a  palace,  tile-floored,  cherub-ceilinged 
and  square  with  the  cop.  I  put  my  foot  on  the  brass 
rail  and  said  to  Billy  Magnus,  the  best  bartender  in 
the  diocese: 

"  Billy,  you've  lived  in  New  York  a  long  time — 
what  kind  of  a  song-and-dance  does  this  old  town  give 
you?  What  I  mean  is,  doesn't  the  gab  of  it  seem  to 
kind  of  bunch  up  and  slide  over  the  bar  to  you  in  a 
sort  of  amalgamated  tip  that  hits  off  the  burg  in  a 
kind  of  an  epigram  with  a  dash  of  bitters  and  a  slice 
of " 

"  Excuse  me  a  minute,"  said  Billy,  "  somebody's 
punching  the  button  at  the  side  door." 

He  went  away;  came  back  with  an  empty  tin 
bucket;  again  vanished  with  it  full;  returned  and 
said  to  me: 

"  That  was  Mame.  She  rings  twice.  She  likes  a 
glass  of  beer  for  supper.  Her  and  the  kid.  If  you 
ever  saw  that  little  skeesicks  of  mine  brace  up  in  his 

high  chair  and  take  his  beer  and But,  say,  what 

was  yours?  I  get  kind  of  excited  when  I  hear  them 
two  rings — was  it  the  baseball  score  or  a  gin  fizz  you 
asked  for?  " 

"  Ginger  ale,"  I  answered. 

I  walked  up  to  Broadway.  I  saw  a  cop  on  the  cor- 

[6] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

ner.  The  cops  take  kids  up,  women  across,  and  men 
in.  I  went  up  to  him. 

"  If  I'm  not  exceeding  the  spiel  limit,"  I  said,  "  let 
me  ask  you.  You  see  New  York  during  its  vocative 
hours.  It  is  the  function  of  you  and  your  brother 
cops  to  preserve  the  acoustics  of  the  city.  There  must 
be  a  civic  voice  that  is  intelligible  to  you.  At  night 
during  your  lonely  rounds  you  must  have  heard  it. 
What  is  the  epitome  of  its  turmoil  and  shouting? 
What  does  the  city  say  to  you?" 

"  Friend,"  said  the  policeman,  spinning  his  club, 
"  it  don't  say  nothing.  I  get  my  orders  from  the  man 
higher  up.  Say,  I  guess  you're  all  right.  Stand  here 
for  a  few  minutes  and  keep  an  eye  open  for  the 
roundsman." 

The  cop  melted  into  the  darkness  of  the  side 
street.  In  ten  minutes  he  had  returned. 

"  Married  last  Tuesday,"  he  said,  half  gruffly. 
"  You  know  how  they  are.  She  comes  to  that  corner  at 
nine  every  night  for  a — comes  to  say  *  hello ! '  I 
generally  manage  to  be  there.  Say,  what  was  it  you 
asked  me  a  bit  ago — what's  doing  in  the  city?  Oh, 
there's  a  roof -garden  or  two  just  opened,  twelve 
blocks  up." 

I  crossed  a  crow's-foot  of  street-car  tracks,  and 
skirted  the  edge  of  an  umbrageous  park.  An  artifi- 
cial Diana,  gilded,  heroic,  poised,  wind-ruled, 
on  the  tower,  shimmered  in  the  clear  light  of 

[7] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

her  namesake  in  the  sky.  Along  came  my  poet,  hurry- 
ing, hatted,  haired,  emitting  dactyls,  spondees  and 
dactylis.  I  seized  him. 

"  Bill,"  said  I  (in  the  magazine  he  is  Cleon),  "  give 
me  a  lift.  I  am  on  an  assignment  to  find  out  the  Voice 
of  the  city.  You  see,  it's  a  special  order.  Ordinarily  a 
symposium  comprising  the  views  of  Henry  Clews, 
John  L.  Sullivan,  Edwin  Markham,  May  Irwin  and 
Charles  Schwab  would  be  about  all.  But  this  is  a 
different  matter.  We  want  a  broad,  poetic,  mystic 
vocalization  of  the  city's  soul  and  meaning.  You  are 
the  very  chap  to  give  me  a  hint.  Some  years  ago  a 
man  got  at  the  Niagara  Falls  and  gave  us  its  pitch. 
The  note  was  about  two  feet  below  the  lowest  G  on  the 
piano.  Now,  you  can't  put  New  York  into  a  note  un- 
less it's  better  indorsed  than  that.  But  give  me  an  idea 
of  what  it  would  say  if  it  should  speak.  It  is  bound  to 
be  a  mighty  and  far-reaching  utterance.  To  arrive  at 
it  we  must  take  the  tremendous  crash  of  the  chords 
of  the  day's  traffic,  the  laughter  and  music  of  the 
night,  the  solemn  tones  of  Dr.  Parkhurst,  the  rag- 
time, the  weeping,  the  stealthy  hum  of  cab-wheels, 
the  shout  of  the  press  agent,  the  tinkle  of  fountains 
on  the  roof  gardens,  the  hullabaloo  of  the  strawberry 
vender  and  the  covers  of  Everybody's  Magazme,  the 
whispers  of  the  lovers  in  the  parks — all  these  sounds 
must  go  into  your  Voice — not  combined,  but  mixed, 
and  of  the  mixture  an  essence  made;  and  of  the  ea- 

[8] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

sence  an  extract — an  audible  extract,  of  which  one 
drop  shall  form  the  thing  we  seek." 

"  Do  you  remember,"  asked  the  poet,  with  a 
chuckle,  "  that  California  girl  we  met  at  Stiver's 
studio  last  week?  Well,  I'm  on  my  way  to  see  her. 
She  repeated  that  poem  of  mine,  '  The  Tribute  of 
Spring,'  word  for  word.  She's  the  smartest  proposi- 
tion in  this  town  just  at  present.  Say,  how  does  this 
confounded  tie  look?  I  spoiled  four  before  I  got  one 
to  set  right." 

"  And  the  Voice  that  I  asked  you  about  ?  "  I  in- 
quired. 

"  Oh,  she  doesn't  sing,"  said  Cleon.  "  But  you 
ought  to  hear  her  recite  my  '  Angel  of  the  Inshore 
Wind. '  " 

I  passed  on.  I  cornered  a  newsboy  and  he  flashed  at 
me  prophetic  pink  papers  that  outstripped  the  news 
by  two  revolutions  of  the  clock's  longest  hand. 

"  Son,"  I  said,  while  I  pretended  to  chase  coins  in 
my  penny  pocket,  "  doesn't  it  sometimes  seem  to  you 
as  if  the  city  ought  to  be  able  to  talk?  All  these  ups 
and  downs  and  funny  business  and  queer  things 
happening  every  day — what  would  it  say,  do  you 
think,  if  it  could  speak?  " 

"  Quit  yer  kiddin',"  said  the  boy.  "  Wot  paper  yer 
want?  I  got  no  time  to  waste.  It's  Mag's  birthday, 
and  I  want  thirty  cents  to  git  her  a  present." 

Here  was  no  interpreter  of  the  city's  mouthpiece. 
[9] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

I  bought  a  paper,  and  consigned  its  undeclared 
treaties,  its  premeditated  murders  and  unfought  bat- 
tles to  an  ash  can. 

Again  I  repaired  to  the  park  and  sat  in  the  moon 
shade.  I  thought  and  thought,  and  wondered  why 
none  could  tell  me  what  I  asked  for. 

And  then,  as  swift  as  light  from  a  fixed  star,  the 
answer  came  to  me.  I  arose  and  hurried — hurried 
as  so  many  reasoners  must,  back  around  my  circle. 
I  knew  the  answer  and  I  hugged  it  in  my  breast  as 
I  flew,  fearing  lest  some  one  would  stop  me  and  de- 
mand my  secret. 

Aurelia  was  still  on  the  stoop.  The  moon  was 
higher  and  the  ivy  shadows  were  deeper.  I  sat  at  her 
side  and  we  watched  a  little  cloud  tilt  at  the  drift- 
ing moon'  and  go  asunder,  quite  pale  and  discomfited. 

And  then,  wonder  of  wonders  and  delight  of  de- 
lights! our  hands  somehow  touched,  and  our  fingers 
closed  together  and  did  not  part. 

After  half  an  hour  Aurelia  said,  with  that  smile 
of  hers : 

"  Do  you  know,  you  haven't  spoken  a  word  since 
you  came  back !  " 

"  That,"  said  I,  nodding  wisely,  "  is  the  Voice  of 
the  City." 


[10] 


THE  COMPLETE  LIFE  OF  JOHN  HOPKINS 

1  HERE  is  a  saying  that  no  man  has  tasted  the  full 
flavor  of  life  until  he  has  known  poverty,  love  and 
war.  The  justness  of  this  reflection  commends  it  to 
the  lover  of  condensed  philosophy.  The  three  condi- 
tions embrace  about  all  there  is  in  life  worth  knowing. 
A  surface  thinker  might  deem  that  wealth  should 
be  added  to  the  list.  Not  so.  When  a  poor  man  finds  a 
long-hidden  quarter-dollar  that  has  slipped  through 
a  rip  into  his  vest  lining,  he  sounds  the  pleasure  of 
life  with  a  deeper  plummet  than  any  millionaire  can 
hope  to  cast. 

It  seems  that  the  wise  executive  power  that  rules 
life  has  thought  best  to  drill  man  in  these  three  con- 
ditions ;  and  none  may  escape  all  three.  In  rural 
places  the  terms  do  not  mean  so  much.  Poverty  is  less 
pinching;  love  is  temperate;  war  shrinks  to  contests 
about  boundary  lines  and  the  neighbors'  hens.  It  is 
in  the  cities  that  our  epigram  gains  in  truth  and 
vigor ;  and  it  has  remained  for  one  John  Hopkins  to 
crowd  the  experience  into  a  rather  small  space  of 
time. 

The  Hopkins  flat  was  like  a  thousand  others. 
There  was  a  rubber  plant  in  one  window;  a  flea- 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

bitten  terrier  sat  in  the  other,  wondering  when  he 
was  to  have  his  day. 

John  Hopkins  was  like  a  thousand  others.  He 
worked  at  $20  per  week  in  a  nine-story,  red-brick 
building  at  either  Insurance,  Buckle's  Hoisting  En- 
gines, Chiropody,  Loans,  Pulleys,  Boas  Renovated, 
Waltz  Guaranteed  in  Five  Lessons,  or  Artificial 
Limbs.^It  is  not  for  us  to  wring  Mr.  Hopkins's  avo- 
cation from  these  outward  signs  that  be. 

Mrs.  Hopkins  was  like  a  thousand  others.  The 
auriferous  toofch,  the  sedentary  disposition,  the  Sun- 
day afternoon  wanderlust,  the  draught  upon  the 
delicatessen  store  for  home-made  comforts,  the 
furor  for  department  store  marked-down  sales,  the 
feeling  of  superiority  to  the  lady  in  the  third-floor 
front  who  wore  genuine  ostrich  tips  and  had  two 
names  over  her  bell,  the  mucilaginous  hours  during 
which  she  remained  glued  to  the  window  sill,  the  vigi- 
lant avoidance  of  the  instalment  man,  the  tireless 
patronage  of  the  acoustics  of  the  dumb-waiter  shaft 
—all  the  attributes  of  the  Gotham  flat-dweller  were 
hers. 

One  moment  yet  of  sententiousness  and  the  story 
moves. 

In  the  Big  City  large  and  sudden  things  happen. 
You  round  a  corner  and  thrust  the  rib  of  your  um- 
brella into  the  eye  of  your  old  friend  from  Kootenai 
Falls.  You  stroll  out  to  pluck  a  Sweet  William  in  the 

[12] 


THE  COMPLETE  LIFE  OF  JOHN  HOPKINS 

park — and  lo !  bandits  attack  you — you  are  am- 
bulanced  to  the  hospital — you  marry  your  nurse; 
are  divorced — get  squeezed  while  short  on  U.  P.  S. 
and  D.  O.  W.  N.  S. — stand  in  the  bread  line — marry 
an  heiress,  take  out  your  laundry  and  pay  your  club 
dues — seemingly  all  in  the  wink  of  an  eye.  You  travel 
the  streets,  and  a  finger  beckons  to  you,  a  handker- 
chief is  dropped  for  you,  a  brick  is  dropped  upon 
you,  the  elevator  cable  or  your  bank  breaks,  a  table 
d'hote  or  your  wife  disagrees  with  you,  and  Fate 
tosses  you  about  like  cork  crumbs  in  wine  opened  by 
an  un-f eed  waiter.  The  City  is  a  sprightly  youngster, 
and  you  are  red  paint  upon  its  toy,  and  you  get 
licked  off. 

John  Hopkins  sat,  after  a  compressed  dinner,  in 
his  glove-fitting  straight-front  flat.  He  sat  upon  a 
hornblende  couch  and  gazed,  with  satiated  eyes,  at 
Art  Brought  Home  to  the  People  in  the  shape  of 
"  The  Storm  "  tacked  against  the  wall.  Mrs.  Hopkins 
discoursed  droningly  of  the  dinner  smells  from  the 
flat  across  the  hall.  The  flea-bitten  terrier  gave 
Hopkins  a  look  of  disgust,  and  showed  a  man-hating 
tooth. 

Here  was  neither  poverty,  love,  nor  war ;  but  upon 
such  barren  stems  may  be  grafted  those  essentials  of 
a  complete  life. 

John  Hopkins  sought  to  inject  a  few  raisins  of 
conversation  into  the  tasteless  dough  of  existence. 

[13] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

"  Putting  a  new  elevator  in  at  the  office,"  he  said, 
discarding  the  nominative  noun,  "  and  the  boss  has 
turned  out  his  whiskers." 

"  You  don't  mean  it !  "  commented  Mrs.  Hopkins. 

"  Mr.  Whipples,"  continued  John,  "  wore  his  new 
spring  suit  down  to-day.  I  liked  it  fine.  It's  a  gray 

with "  He  stopped,  suddenly  stricken  by  a  need 

that  made  itself  known  to  him.  "I  believe  I'll  walk 
down  to  the  corner  and  get  a  five-cent  cigar,"  he  con- 
cluded. 

John  Hopkins  took  his  hat  and  picked  his  way 
down  the  musty  halls  and  stairs  of  the  flat-house. 

The  evening  air  was  mild,  and  the  streets  shrill 
with  the  careless  cries  of  children  playing  games  con- 
trolled by  mysterious  rhythms  and  phrases.  Their 
elders  held  the  doorways  and  steps  with  leisurely  pipe 
and  gossip.  Paradoxically,  the  fire-escapes  supported 
lovers  in  couples  who  made  no  attempt  to  fly  the 
mounting  conflagration  they  were  there  to  fan. 

The  corner  cigar  store  aimed  at  by  John  Hopkins 
was  kept  by  a  man  named  Freshmayer,  who  looked 
upon  the  earth  as  a  sterile  promontory. 

Hopkins,  unknown  in  the  store,  entered  and  called 
genially  for  his  "  bunch  of  spinach,  car-fare  grade." 
This  imputation  deepened  the  pessimism  of  Fresh- 
mayer; but  he  set  out  a  brand  that  came  perilously 
near  to  filling  the  order.  Hopkins  bit  off  the  roots  of 
his  purchase,  and  lighted  up  at  the  swinging  gas 

[14] 


THE  COMPLETE  LIFE  OF  JOHN  HOPKINS 

jet.  Feeling  in  his  pockets  to  make  payment,  he  found 
not  a  penny  there. 

"  Say,  my  friend,"  he  explained,  frankly,  "  I've 
come  out  without  any  change.  Hand  you  that  nickel 
first  time  I  pass." 

Joy  surged  in  Freshmayer's  heart.  Here  was  cor- 
roboration  of  his  belief  that  the  world  was  rotten  and 
man  a  peripatetic  evil.  Without  a  word  he  rounded 
the  end  of  his  counter  and  made  earnest  onslaught 
upon  his  customer.  Hopkins  was  no  man  to  serve  as 
a  punching-bag  for  a  pessimistic  tobacconist.  He 
quickly  bestowed  upon  Freshmayer  a  colorado- 
maduro  eye  in  return  for  the  ardent  kick  that  he  re- 
ceived from  that  dealer  in  goods  for  cash  only. 

The  impetus  of  the  enemy's  attack  forced  the 
Hopkins  line  back  to  the  sidewalk.  There  the  con- 
flict raged;  the  pacific  wooden  Indian,  with  his 
carven  smile,  was  overturned,  and  those  of  the  street 
who  delighted  in  carnage  pressed  round  to  view  the 
zealous  joust. 

But  then  came  the  inevitable  cop  and  imminent  in- 
convenience for  both  the  attacker  and  attacked.  John 
Hopkins  was  a  peaceful  citizen,  who  worked  at 
rebuses  of  nights  in  a  flat,  but  he  was  not  without  the 
fundamental  spirit  of  resistance  that  comes  with  the 
battle-rage.  He  knocked  the  policeman  into  a  grocer's 
sidewalk  display  of  goods  and  gave  Freshmayer  a 
punch  that  caused  him  temporarily  to  regret  that  he 

[15] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

had  not  made  it  a  rule  to  extend  a  five-cent  line  of 
credit  to .  certain  customers.  Then  Hopkins  took 
spiritedly  to  his  heels  down  the  sidewalk,  closely  fol- 
lowed by  the  cigar-dealer  and  the  policeman,  whose 
uniform  testified  to  the  reason  in  the  grocer's  sign 
that  read :  "  Eggs  cheaper  than  anywhere  else  in  the 
city." 

As  Hopkins  ran  he  became  aware  of  a  big,  low, 
red,  racing  automobile  that  kept  abreast  of  him  in 
the  street.  This  auto  steered  in  to  the  side  of  the  side- 
walk, and  the  man  guiding  it  motioned  to  Hopkins 
to  jump  into  it.  He  did  so  without  slackening  his 
speed,  and  fell  into  the  turkey-red  upholstered  seat 
beside  the  chauffeur.  The  big  machine,  with  a  dimin- 
uendo cough,  flew  away  like  an  albatross  down  the 
avenue  into  which  the  street  emptied. 

The  driver  of  the  auto  sped  his  machine  without  a 
word.  He  was  masked  beyond  guess  in  the  goggles 
and  diabolic  garb  of  the  chauffeur. 

"  Much  obliged,  old  man,"  called  Hopkins,  grate- 
fully. "  I  guess  you've  got  sporting  blood  in  you, 
all  right,  and  don't  admire  the  sight  of  two  men  try- 
ing to  soak  one.  Little  more  and  I'd  have  been 
pinched." 

The  chauffeur  made  no  sign  that  he  had  heard. 
Hopkins  shrugged  a  shoulder  and  chewed  at  his 
cigar,  to  which  his  teeth  had  clung  grimly  through- 
out the  melee. 

[16] 


THE  COMPLETE  LIFE  OF  JOHN  HOPKINS 

Ten  minutes  and  the  auto  turned  into  the  open 
carriage  entrance  of  a  noble  mansion  of  brown  stone, 
and  stood  still.  The  chauffeur  leaped  out,  and  said : 

"  Come  quick.  The  lady,  she  will  explain.  It  is  the 
great  honor  you  will  have,  monsieur.  Ah,  that  milady 
could  call  upon  Armand  to  do  this  thing!  But,  no, 
I  am  only  one  chauffeur." 

With  vehement  gestures  the  chauffeur  conducted 
Hopkins  into  the  house.  He  was  ushered  into  a  small 
but  luxurious  reception  chamber.  A  lady,  young,  and 
possessing  the  beauty  of  visions^  rose  from  a  chair. 
In  her  eyes  smouldered  a  becoming  anger.  Her  high- 
arched,  thread-like  brows  were  ruffled  into  a  delicious 
frown. 

"  Milady,"  said  the  chauffeur,  bowing  low,  "  I  have 
the  honor  to  relate  to  you  that  I  went  to  the  house  of 
Monsieur  Long  and  found  him  to  be  not  at  home.  As 
I  came  back  I  see  this  gentleman  in  combat  against 
— how  you  say — greatest  odds.  He  is  fighting  with 
five — ten — thirty  men — gendarmes,  aussi.  Yes,  mi- 
lady, he  what  you  call  'swat'  one — three — eight  po- 
licemans.  If  that  Monsieur  Long  is  out  I  say  to  my- 
self this  gentleman  he  will  serve  milady  so  well,  and 
I  bring  him  here." 

"  Very  well,  Armand,"  said  the  lady,  "  you  may 
go."  She  turned  to  Hopkins. 

"  I  sent  my  chauffeur,"  she  said,  "  to  bring  my 
cousin,  Walter  Long.  There  is  a  man  in  this  house 

[17] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

who  has  treated  me  with  insult  and  abuse.  I  have  com- 
plained to  my  aunt,  and  she  laughs  at  me.  Armand 
says  you  are  brave.  In  these  prosaic  days  men  who 
are  both  brave  and  chivalrous  are  few.  May  I  count 
upon  your  assistance?  " 

John  Hopkins  thrust  the  remains  of  his  cigar  into 
his  coat  pocket.  He  looked  upon  this  winning  creature 
and  felt  his  first  thrill  of  romance.  It  was  a  knightly 
love,  and  contained  no  disloyalty  to  the  flat  with  the 
flea-bitten  terrier  and  the  lady  of  his  choice.  He  had 
married  her  after  a  picnic  of  the  Lady  Label  Stick- 
ers' Union,  Lodge  No.  2,  on  a  dare  and  a  bet  of  new 
hats  and  chowder  all  around  with  his  friend,  Billy 
McManus.  This  angel  who  was  begging  him  to  come 
to  her  rescue  was  something  too  heavenly  for  chow- 
der, and  as  for  hats — golden,  jewelled  crowns  for 
her! 

"  Say,"  said  John  Hopkins,  "  just  show  me  the  guy 
that  you've  got  the  grouch  at.  I've  neglected  my 
talents  as  a  scrapper  heretofore,  but  this  is  my  busy 
night." 

"  He  is  in  there,"  said  the  lady,  pointing  to  a 
closed  door.  "  Come.  Are  you  sure  that  you  do  not 
falter  or  fear?" 

"  Me?  "  said  John  Hopkins.  "  Just  give  me  one  of 
those  roses  in  the  bunch  you  are  wearing,  will  you  ?  " 

The  lady  gave  him  a  red,  red  rose.  John  Hopkins 
kissed  it,  stuffed  it  into  his  vest  pocket,  opened  the 

[18] 


THE  COMPLETE  LIFE  OF  JOHN  HOPKINS 

door  and  walked  into  the  room.  It  was  a  handsome 
library,  softly  but  brightly  lighted.  A  young  man 
was  there,  reading. 

"  Books  on  etiquette  is  what  you  want  to  study," 
said  John  Hopkins,  abruptly.  "  Get  up  here,  and  I'll 
give  you  some  lessons.  Be  rude  to  a  lady,  will  you?  " 

The  young  man  looked  mildly  surprised.  Then  he 
arose  languidly,  dextrously  caught  the  arms  of  John 
Hopkins  and  conducted  him  irresistibly  to  the  front 
door  of  the  house. 

"  Beware,  Ralph  Branscombe,"  cried  the  lady,  who 
had  followed,  "  what  you  do  to  the  gallant  man  who 
has  tried  to  protect  me." 

The  young  man  shoved  John  Hopkins  gently  out 
the  door  and  then  closed  it. 

"  Bess,"  he  said,  calmly,  "  I  wish  you  would  quit 
reading  historical  novels.  How  in  the  world  did  that 
fellow  get  in  here  ?  " 

"  Armand  brought  him,"  said  the  young  lady.  "  I 
think  you  are  awfully  mean  not  to  let  me  have  that 
St.  Bernard.  I  sent  Armand  for  Walter.  I  was  so 
angry  with  you." 

"  Be  sensible,  Bess,"  said  the  young  man,  taking 
her  arm.  "  That  dog  isn't  safe.  He  has  bitten  two  or 
three  people  around  the  kennels.  Come  now,  let's  go 
tell  auntie  we  are  in  good  humor  again." 

Arm  in  arm,  they  moved  away. 

John  Hopkins  walked  to  his  flat.  The  janitor's  five- 
[19] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

year-old  daughter  was  playing  on  the  steps.  Hopkins 
gave  her  a  nice,  red  rose  and  walked  upstairs. 

Mrs.  Hopkins  was  philandering  with  curl-papers. 

"Get  your  cigar?"  she  asked,  disinterestedly. 

"  Sure,"  said  Hopkins,  "  and  I  knocked  around  a 
while  outside.  It's  a  nice  night." 

He  sat  upon  the  hornblende  sofa,  took  out  the 
stump  of  his  cigar,  lighted  it,  and  gazed  at  the 
graceful  figures  in  "  The  Storm "  on  the  opposite 
wall. 

"  I  was  telling  you,"  said  he,  "  about  Mr. 
Whipple's  suit.  It's  a  gray,  with  an  invisible  check, 
and  it  looks  fine." 


[20] 


A  LICKPENNY  LOVER 

THERE  were  3,000  girls  in  the  Biggest  Store. 
Masie  was  one  of  them.  She  was  eighteen  and  a  sales- 
lady in  the  gents'  gloves.  Here  she  became  versed  in 
two  varieties  of  human  beings — the  kind  of  gents 
who  buy  their  gloves  in  department  stores  and  the 
kind  of  women  who  buy  gloves  for  unfortunate  gents. 
Besides  this  wide  knowledge  of  the  human  species, 
Masie  had  acquired  other  information.  She  had  lis- 
tened to  the  promulgated  wisdom  of  the  2,999  other 
girls  and  had  stored  it  in  a  brain  that  was  as  secretive 
and  wary  as  that  of  a  Maltese  cat.  Perhaps  nature, 
foreseeing  that  she  would  lack  wise  counsellors,  had 
mingled  the  saving  ingredient  of  shrewdness  along 
with  her  beauty,  as  she  has  endowed  the  silver  fox  of 
the  priceless  fur  above  the  other  animals  with 
cunning. 

For  Masie  was  beautiful.  She  was  a  deep-tinted 
blonde,  with  the  calm  poise  of  a  lady  who  cooks  butter 
cakes  in  a  window.  She  stood  behind  her  counter  in  the 
Biggest  Store ;  and  as  you  closed  your  hand  over  the 
tape-line  for  your  glove  measure  you  thought  of 
Hebe;  and  as  you  looked  again  you  wondered  how 
she  had  come  by  Minerva's  eyes. 

[21] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

When  the  floorwalker  was  not  looking  Masie 
chewed  tutti  frutti;  when  he  was  looking  she  gazed 
up  as  if  at  the  clouds  and  smiled  wistfully. 

That  is  the  shopgirl  smile,  and  I  enjoin  you  to 
shun  it  unless  you  are  well  fortified  with  callosity  of 
the  heart,  caramels  and  a  congeniality  for  the  capers 
of  Cupid.  This  smile  belonged  to  Masie's  recreation 
hours  and  not  to  the  store;  but  the  floorwalker  must 
have  his  own.  He  is  the  Shylock  of  the  stores.  When 
he  comes  nosing  around  the  bridge  of  his  nose  is  a 
toll-bridge.  It  is  goo-goo  eyes  or  "  git  "  when  he  looks 
toward  a  pretty  girl.  Of  course  not  all  floorwalkers 
are  thus.  Only  a  few  days  ago  the  papers  printed 
news  of  one  over  eighty  years  of  age. 

One  day  Irving  Carter,  painter,  millionaire,  trav- 
eller, poet,  automobilist,  happened  to  enter  the  Big- 
gest Store.  It  is  due  to  him  to  add  that  his  visit  was 
not  voluntary.  Filial  duty  took  him  by  the  collar  and 
dragged  him  inside,  while  his  mother  philandered 
among  the  bronze  and  terra-cotta  statuettes. 

Carter  strolled  across  to  the  glove  counter  in  order 
to  shoot  a  few  minutes  on  the  wing.  His  need  for 
gloves  was  genuine ;  he  had  forgotten  to  bring  a  pair 
with  him.  But  his  action  hardly  calls  for  apology,  be- 
cause he  had  never  heard  of  glove-counter  flirtations. 

As  he  neared  the  vicinity  of  his  fate  he  hesitated, 
suddenly  conscious  of  this  unknown  phase  of  Cupid's 
less  worthy  profession. 

[22] 


A  LICKPENNY  LOVER 

Three  or  four  cheap  fellows,  sonorously  garbed, 
were  leaning  over  the  counters,  wrestling  with  the 
mediatorial  hand-coverings,  while  giggling  girls 
played  vivacious  second  to  their  lead  upon  the 
strident  string  of  coquetry.  Carter  would  have  re- 
treated, but  he  had  gone  too  far.  Masie  confronted 
him  behind  her  counter  with  a  questioning  look  in 
eyes  as  coldly,  beautifully,  warmly  blue  as  the  glint  of 
summer  sunshine  on  an  iceberg  drifting  in  Southern 
seas. 

And  then  Irving  Carter,  painter,  millionaire,  etc., 
felt  a  warm  flush  rise  to  his  aristocratically  pale  face. 
But  not  from  diffidence.  The  blush  was  intellectual 
in  origin.  He  knew  in  a  moment  that  he  stood  in  the 
ranks  of  the  ready-made  youths  who  wooed  the  gig- 
gling girls  at  other  counters.  Himself  leaned  against 
the  oaken  trysting  place  of  a  cockney  Cupid  with  a 
desire  in  his  heart  for  the  favor  of  a  glove  salesgirl. 
He  was  no  more  than  Bill  and  Jack  and  Mickey. 
And  then  he  felt  a  sudden  tolerance  for  them,  and 
an  elating,  courageous  contempt  for  the  conventions 
upon  which  he  had  fed,  and  an  unhesitating  deter- 
mination to  have  this  perfect  creature  for  his  own. 

When  the  gloves  were  paid  for  and  wrapped 
Carter  lingered  for  a  moment.  The  dimples  at  the 
corners  of  Masie's  damask  mouth  deepened.  All  gen- 
tlemen who  bought  gloves  lingered  in  just  that  way. 
She  curved  an  arm,  showing  like  Psyche's  through 

[23] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

her  shirt-waist  sleeve,  and  rested  an  elbow  upon  the 
show-case  edge. 

Carter  had  never  before  encountered  a  situation  of 
which  he  had  not  been  perfect  master.  But  now  he 
stood  far  more  awkward  than  Bill  or  Jack  or  Mickey. 
He  had  no  chance  of  meeting  this  beautiful  girl  so- 
cially. His  mind  struggled  to  recall  the  nature  and 
habits  of  shop  girls  as  he  had  read  or  heard  of  them. 
Somehow  he  had  received  the  idea  that  they  some- 
times did  not  insist  too  strictly  upon  the  regular 
channels  of  introduction.  His  heart  beat  loudly  at 
the  thought  of  proposing  an  unconventional  meeting 
with  this  lovely  and  virginal  being.  But  the  tumult 
in  his  heart  gave  him  courage. 

After  a  few  friendly  and  well-received  remarks  on 
general  subjects,  he  laid  his  card  by  her  hand  on  the 
counter. 

"  Will  you  please  pardon  me,"  he  said,  "  if  I  seem 
too  bold;  but  I  earnestly  hope  you  will  allow  me  the 
pleasure  of  seeing  you  again.  There  is  my  name;  I 
assure  you  that  it  is  with  the  greatest  respect  that 

I  ask  the  favor  of  becoming  one  of  your  fr 

acquaintances.  May  I  not  hope  for  the  privilege?  " 

Masie  knew  men — especially  men  who  buy  gloves. 
Without  hesitation  she  looked  him  frankly  and  smil- 
ingly in  the  eyes,  and  said: 

"  Sure.  I  guess  you're  all  right.  I  don't  usually  go 
out  with  strange  gentlemen,  though.  It  ain't 

[24] 


A  LICKPENNY  LOVER 

quite   ladylike.   When    should   you  want  to   see   me 
again?  " 

"  As  soon  as  I  may,"  said  Carter.  "  If  you  would 
allow  me  to  call  at  your  home,  I " 

Masie  laughed  musically.  "  Oh,  gee,  no !  "  she  said, 
emphatically.  "  If  you  could  see  our  flat  once ! 
There's  five  of  us  in  three  rooms.  I'd  just  like  to  see 
ma's  face  if  I  was  to  bring  a  gentleman  friend 
there!" 

"  Anywhere,  then,"  said  the  enamored  Carter, 
"  that  will  be  convenient  to  you." 

"  Say,"  suggested  Masie,  with  a  bright-idea  look 
in  her  peach-blow  face ;  "  I  guess  Thursday  night  will 
about  suit  me.  Suppose  you  come  to  the  corner  of 
Eighth  Avenue  and  Forty-eighth  Street  at  7:30.  I 
live  right  near  the  corner.  But  I've  got  to  be  back 
home  by  eleven.  Ma  never  lets  me  stay  out  after 
eleven." 

Carter  promised  gratefully  to  keep  the  tryst,  and 
then  hastened  to  his  mother,  who  was  looking  about 
for  him  to  ratify  her  purchase  of  a  bronze  Diana. 

A  salesgirl,  with  small  eyes  and  an  obtuse  nose, 
strolled  near  Masie,  with  a  friendly  leer. 

"  Did  you  make  a  hit  with  his  nobs,  Mase?  "  she 
asked,  familiarly. 

"  The  gentleman  asked  permission  to  call,"  an- 
swered Masie,  with  the  grand  air,  as  she  slipped  Car- 
ter's card  into  the  bosom  of  her  waist. 

[25] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

"  Permission  to  call !  "  echoed  small  eyes,  with  a 
snigger.  "  Did  he  say  anything  about  dinner  in  the 
Waldorf  and  a  spin  in  his  auto  afterward?  " 

"  Oh,  cheese  it ! "  said  Masie,  wearily.  "  You've 
been  used  to  swell  things,  I  don't  think.  You've  had  a 
swelled  head  ever  since  that  hose-cart  driver  took  you 
out  to  a  chop  suey  joint.  No,  he  never  mentioned  the 
Waldorf;  but  there's  a  Fifth  Avenue  address  on  his 
card,  and  if  he  buys  the  supper  you  can  bet  your  life 
there  won't  be  no  pigtail  on  the  waiter  what  takes 
the  order." 

As  Carter  glided  away  from  the  Biggest  Store 
with  his  mother  in  his  electric  runabout,  he  bit  his  lip 
with  a  dull  pain  at  his  heart.  He  knew  that  love  had 
come  to  him  for  the  first  time  in  all  the  twenty-nine 
years  of  his  life.  And  that  the  object  of  it  should 
make  so  readily  an  appointment  with  him  at  a  street 
corner,  though  it  was  a  step  toward  his  desires,  tor- 
tured him  with  misgivings. 

Carter  did  not  know  the  shopgirl.  He  did  not 
know  that  her  home  is  often  either  a  scarcely  habit- 
able tiny  room  or  a  domicile  filled  to  overflowing  with 
kith  and  kin.  The  street-corner  is  her  parlor,  the 
park  is  her  drawing-room ;  the  avenue  is  her  garden 
walk;  yet  for  the  most  part  she  is  as  inviolate  mis- 
tress of  herself  in  them  as  is  my  lady  inside  her 
tapestried  chamber. 

One  evening  at  dusk,  two  weeks  after  their  first 
[26] 


A  LICKPENNY  LOVER 

meeting,  Carter  and  Masie  strolled  arm-in-arm  into  a 
little,  dimly-lit  park.  They  found  a  bench,  tree-shad- 
owed and  secluded,  and  sat  there. 

For  the  first  time  his  arm  stole  gently  around  her. 
Her  golden-bronze  head  slid  restfully  against  his 
shoulder. 

"Gee!"  sighed  Masie,  thankfully.  "Why  didn't 
you  ever  think  of  that  before  ?  " 

"  Masie,"  said  Carter,  earnestly,  "  you  surely 
know  that  I  love  you.  I  ask  you  sincerely  to  marry 
me.  You  know  me  well  enough  by  this  time  to  have 
no  doubts  of  me.  I  want  you,  and  I  must  have  you.  I 
care  nothing  for  the  difference  in  our  stations." 

"  What  is  the  difference? "  asked  Masie,  curi- 
ously. 

"  Well,  there  isn't  any,"  said  Carter,  quickly,  "ex- 
cept in  the  minds  of  foolish  people.  It  is  in  my  power 
to  give  you  a  life  of  luxury.  My  social  position  is  be- 
yond dispute,  and  my  means  are  ample." 

"They  all  say  that,"  remarked  Masie.  "It's  the 
kid  they  all  give  you.  I  suppose  you  really  work  in  a 
delicatessen  or  follow  the  races.  I  ain't  as  green  as  I 
look." 

"  I  can  furnish  you  all  the  proofs  you  want,"  said 
Carter,  gently.  "  And  I  want  you,  Masie.  I  loved  you 
the  first  day  I  saw  you." 

"  They  all  do,"  said  Masie,  with  an  amused  laugh, 
"  to  hear  'em  talk.  If  I  could  meet  a  man  that  got 

[27] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

stuck  on  me  the  third  time  he'd  seen  me  I  think  I'd 
get  mashed  on  him." 

*;  Please  don't  say  such  things,"  pleaded  Carter. 
"  Listen  to  me,  dear.  Ever  since  I  first  looked  into 
your  eyes  you  have  been  the  only  woman  in  the  world 
for  me." 

"  Oh,  ain't  you  the  kidder ! "  smiled  Masie.  "  How 
many  other  girls  did  you  ever  tell  that  ?  " 

But  Carter  persisted.  And  at  length  he  reached 
the  flimsy,  fluttering  little  soul  of  the  shopgirl  that 
existed  somewhere  deep  down  in  her  lovely  bosom. 
His  words  penetrated  the  heart  whose  very  lightness 
was  its  safest  armor.  She  looked  up  at  him  with  eyes 
that  saw.  And  a  warm  glow  visited  her  cool  cheeks. 
Tremblingly,  awfully,  her  moth  wings  closed,  and 
she  seemed  about  to  settle  upon  the  flower  of  love. 
Some  faint  glimmer  of  life  and  its  possibilities  on 
the  other  side  of  her  glove  counter  dawned  upon  her. 
Carter  felt  the  change  and  crowded  the  opportunity. 

"Marry  me,  Masie,"  he  whispered  softly,  "and  we 
will  go  away  from  this  ugly  city  to  beautiful  ones. 
We  will  forget  work  and  business,  and  life  will  be  one 
long  holiday.  I  know  where  I  should  take  you — I 
have  been  there  often.  Just  think  of  a  shore  where 
summer  is  eternal,  where  the  waves  are  always  rip- 
pling on  the  lovely  beach  and  the  people  are  happy 
and  free  as  children.  We  will  sail  to  those  shores  and 
remain  there  as  long  as  you  please.  In  one  of  those 

[28] 


A  LICKPENNY  LOVER 

far-away  cities  there  are  grand  and  lovely  palaces 
and  towers  full  of  beautiful  pictures  and  statues. 
The  streets  of  the  city  are  water,  and  one  travels 
about  in " 

"  I  know,"  said  Masie,  sitting  up  suddenly. 
"  Gondolas." 

"  Yes,"  smiled  Carter. 

"  I  thought  so,"  said  Masie. 

"  And  then,"  continued  Carter,  "  we  will  travel  on 
and  see  whatever  we  wish  in  the  world.  After  the 
European  cities  we  will  visit  India  and  the  ancient 
cities  there,  and  ride  on  elephants  and  see  the  wonder- 
ful temples  of  the  Hindoos  and  Brahmins  and  the 
Japanese  gardens  and  the  camel  trains  and  chariot 
races  in  Persia,  and  all  the  queer  sights  of  foreign 
countries.  Don't  you  think  you  would  like  it,  Masie?  " 

Masie  rose  to  her  feet. 

"  I  think  we  had  better  be  going  home,"  she  said, 
coolly.  "It's  getting  late." 

Carter  humored  her.  He  had  come  to  know  her 
varying,  thistle-down  moods,  and  that  it  was  useless 
to  combat  them.  But  he  felt  a  certain  happy  triumph. 
He  had  held  for  a  moment,  though  but  by  a  silken 
thread,  the  soul  of  his  wild  Psyche,  and  hope  was 
stronger  within  him.  Once  she  had  folded  her  wings 
and  her  cool  hand  had  closed  about  his  own. 

At  the  Biggest  Store  the  next  day  Masie's  chum, 
Lulu,  waylaid  her  in  an  angle  of  the  counter. 

[29] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

"  How  are  you  and  your  swell  friend  making  it  ?  " 
she  asked. 

"Oh,  him?"  said  Masie,  patting  her  side  curls, 
"  He  ain't  in  it  any  more.  Say,  Lu,  what  do  you  think 
that  fellow  wanted  me  to  do?  " 

"  Go  on  the  stage?  "  guessed  Lulu,  breathkssly. 

"Nit;  he's  too  cheap  a  guy  for  that.  He  wanted 
me  to  marry  him  and  go  down  to  Coney  Island  for 
a  wedding  tour !  " 


[30] 


DOUGHERTY'S  EYE-OPENER 

BlG  JIM  DOUGHERTY  was  a  sport.  He  belonged 
to  that  race  of  men.  In  Manhattan  it  is  a  distinct 
race.  They  are  the  Caribs  of  the  North — strong,  art- 
ful, self-sufficient,  clannish,  honorable  within  the  laws 
of  their  race,  holding  in  lenient  contempt  neighbor- 
ing tribes  who  bow  to  the  measure  of  Society's  tape- 
line.  I  refer,  of  course,  to  the  titled  nobility  of  sport- 
dom.  There  is  a  class  which  bears  as  a  qualifying 
adjective  the  substantive  belonging  to  a  wind  instru- 
ment made  of  a  cheap  and  base  metal.  But  the  tin 
mines  of  Cornwall  never  produced  the  material  for 
manufacturing  descriptive  nomenclature  for  "  Big 
Jim  "  Dougherty. 

The  habitat  of  the  sport  is  the  lobby  or  the  outside 
corner  of  certain  hotels  and  combination  restaurants 
and  cafes.  They  are  mostly  men  of  different  sizes, 
running  from  small  to  large ;  but  they  are  unanimous 
in  the  possession  of  a  recently  shaven,  blue-black 
cheek  and  chin  and  dark  overcoats  (in  season)  with 
black  velvet  collars. 

Of  the  domestic  life  of  the  sport  little  is  known.  It 
has  been  said  that  Cupid  and  Hymen  sometimes  take 
a  hand  in  the  game  and  copper  the  aueen  of  hearts  to 

[31] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

lose.  Daring  theorists  have  averred — not  content 
with  simply  saying — that  a  sport  often  contracts  a 
spouse,  and  even  incurs  descendants.  Sometimes  he 
sits  in  at  the  game  of  politics;  and  then  at  chowder 
picnics  there  is  a  revelation  of  a  Mrs.  Sport  and 
little  Sports  in  glazed  hats  with  tin  pails. 

But  mostly  the  sport  is  Oriental.  He  believes  his 
women-folk  should  not  be  too  patent.  Somewhere  be- 
hind grilles  or  flower-ornamented  fire  escapes  they 
await  him.  There,  no  doubt,  they  tread  on  rugs  from 
Teheran  and  are  diverted  by  the  buloul  and  play 
upon  the  dulcimer  and  feed  upon  sweetmeats.  But 
away  from  his  home  the  sport  is  an  integer.  He  does 
not,  as  men  of  other  races  in  Manhattan  do,  become 
the  convoy  in  his  unoccupied  hours  of  fluttering  laces 
and  high  heels  that  tick  off  delectably  the  happy 
seconds  of  the  evening  parade.  He  herds  with  his  own 
race  at  corners,  and  delivers  a  commentary  in  his 
Carib  lingo  upon  the  passing  show. 

"  Big  Jim  "  Dougherty  had  a  wife,  but  he  did  not 
wear  a  button  portrait  of  her  upon  his  lapel.  He  had 
a  home  in  one  of  those  brown-stone,  iron-railed 
streets  on  the  west  side  that  look  like  a  recently  ex- 
cavated bowling  alley  of  Pompeii. 

To  this  home  of  his  Mr.  Dougherty  repaired  each 

night  when  the  hour  was  so  late  as  to  promise  no 

further  diversion  in  the  arch  domains  of  sport.  By 

hat  time  the  occupant  of  the  monogamistic  harem 

[32] 


DOUGHERTY'S  EYE-OPENER 

would  be  in  dreamland,  the  bulbul  silenced  and  the 
hour  propitious  for  slumber. 

"  Big  Jim  "  always  arose  at  twelve,  meridian,  for 
breakfast,  and  soon  afterward  he  would  return  to  the 
rendezvous  of  his  "  crowd." 

He  was  always  vaguely  conscious  that  there  was 
a  Mrs.  Dougherty.  He  would  have  received  without 
denial  the  charge  that  the  quiet,  neat,  comfortable 
lit  tie  woman  across  the  table  at  home  was  his  wife.  In 
fact,  he  remembered  pretty  well  that  they  had  been 
married  for  nearly  four  years.  She  would  often  tell 
him  about  the  cute  tricks  of  Spot,  the  canary,  and 
the  light-haired  lady  that  lived  in  the  window  of  the 
flat  across  the  street. 

"  Big  Jim  "  Dougherty  even  listened  to  this  con- 
versation of  hers  sometimes.  He  knew  that  she  would 
have  a  nice  dinner  ready  for  him  every  evening  at 
seven  when  he  came  for  it.  She  sometimes  went  to 
matinees,  and  she  had  a  talking  machine  with  six 
dozen  records.  Once  when  her  Uncle  Amos  blew  in  on 
a  wind  from  up-state,  she  went  with  him  to  the  Eden 
Musee.  Surely  these  things  were  diversions  enough 
for  any  woman. 

One  afternoon  Mr.  Dougherty  finished  his  break- 
fast, put  on  his  hat  and  got  away  fairly  for  the  door. 
When  his  hand  was  on  the  knob  he  heard  his  wife's 
voice. 

"  Jim,"  she  said,  firmly,  "  I  wish  you  would  take 
[83] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

me  out  to  dinner  this  evening.  It  has  been  three  years 
since  you  have  been  outside  the  door  with  me." 

"  Big  Jim  "  was  astounded.  She  had  never  asked 
anything  like  this  before.  It  had  the  flavor  of  a 
totally  new  proposition.  But  he  was  a  game  sport. 

"  All  right,"  he  said.  "  You  be  ready  when  I  come 
at  seven.  None  of  this  '  wait  two  minutes  till  I  primp 
an  hour  or  two  '  kind  of  business,  now,  Dele." 

"  I'll  be  ready,"  said  his  wife,  calmly. 

At  seven  she  descended  the  stone  steps  in  the  Pom- 
peian  bowling  alley  at  the  side  of  "  Big  Jim  "  Dough- 
erty. She  wore  a  dinner  gown  made  of  a  stuff  that 
the  spiders  must  have  woven,  and  of  a  color  that  a 
twilight  sky  must  have  contributed.  A  light  coat  with 
many  admirably  unnecessary  capes  and  adorably 
inutile  ribbons  floated  downward  from  her  shoulders. 
Fine  feathers  do  make  fine  birds;  and  the  only  re- 
proach in  the  saying  is  for  the  man  who  refuses  to 
give  up  his  earnings  to  the  ostrich-tip  industry. 

"  Big  Jim  "  Dougherty  was  troubled.  There  was  a 
being  at  his  side  whom  he  did  not  know.  He  thought 
of  the  sober-hued  plumage  that  this  bird  of  paradise 
was  accustomed  to  wear  in  her  cage,  and  this  winged 
revelation  puzzled  him.  In  some  way  she  reminded 
him  of  the  Delia  Cullen  that  he  had  married  four 
years  before.  Shyly  and  rather  awkwardly  he  stalked 
at  her  right  hand. 

"  After  dinner  I'll  take  you  back  home,  Dele,"  said 
[34] 


DOUGHERTY'S  EYE-OPENER 

Mr.  Dougherty,  "  and  then  I'll  drop  back  up  to  Selt- 
zer's with  the  boys.  You  can  have  swell  chuck  to- 
night if  you  want  it.  I  made  a  winning  on  Anaconda 
yesterday ;  so  you  can  go  as  far  as  you  like." 

Mr.  Dougherty  had  intended  to  make  the  outing 
with  his  unwonted  wife  an  inconspicuous  one.  Uxori- 
ousness  was  a  weakness  that  the  precepts  of  the  Caribs 
did  not  countenance.  If  any  of  his  friends  of  the 
track,  the  billiard  cloth  or  the  square  circle  had  wives 
they  had  never  complained  of  the  fact  in  public. 
There  were  a  number  of  table  d'hote  places  on  the 
cross  streets  near  the  broad  and  shining  way ;  and  to 
one  of  these  he  had  purposed  to  escort  her,  so  that  the 
bushel  might  not  be  removed  from  the  light  of  his 
domesticity. 

But  while  on  the  way  Mr.  Dougherty  altered  those 
intentions.  He  had  been  casting  stealthy  glances  at 
his  attractive  companion  and  he  was  seized  with  the 
conviction  that  she  was  no  selling  plater.  He  re- 
solved to  parade  with  his  wife  past  Seltzer's  cafe, 
where  at  this  time  a  number  of  his  tribe  would  be 
gathered  to  view  the  daily  evening  procession.  Yes; 
and  he  would  take  her  to  dine  at  Hoogley's,  the  swell- 
est  slow-lunch  warehouse  on  the  line,  he  said  to 
himself. 

The  congregation  of  smooth-faced  tribal  gentle- 
men were  on  watch  at  Seltzer's.  As  Mr.  Dougherty 
and  his  reorganized  Delia  passed  they  stared,  mo- 

[35] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

mentarily  petrified,  and  then  removed  their  hats 
— a  performance  as  unusual  to  them  as  was 
the  astonishing  innovation  presented  to  their 
gaze  by  "  Big  Jim."  On  the  latter  gentleman's  im- 
passive face  there  appeared  a  slight  flicker  of  tri- 
umph— a  faint  flicker,  no  more  to  be  observed  than 
the  expression  called  there  by  the  draft  of  little 
casino  to  a  four-card  spade  flush. 

Hoogley's  was  animated.  Electric  lights  shone — 
as,  indeed,  they  were  expected  to  do.  And  the  napery, 
the  glassware  and  the  flowers  also  meritoriously  per- 
formed the  spectacular  duties  required  of  them.  The 
guests  were  numerous,  well-dressed  and  gay. 

A  waiter — not  necessarily  obsequious — conducted 
"  Big  Jim  "  Dougherty  and  his  wife  to  a  table. 

"  Play  that  menu  straight  across  for  what  you 
like,  Dele,"  said  "  Big  Jim."  "  It's  you  for  a  trough 
of  the  gilded  oats  to-night.  It  strikes  me  that  maybe 
we've  been  sticking  too  fast  to  home  fodder." 

"  Big  Jim's  "  wife  gave  her  order.  He  looked  at 
her  with  respect.  She  had  mentioned  truffles ;  and  he 
had  not  known  that  she  knew  what  truffles  were.  From 
the  wine  list  she  designated  an  appropriate  and  de- 
sirable brand.  He  looked  at  her  with  some  admiration. 

She  was  beaming  with  the  innocent  excitement  that 
woman  derives  from  the  exercise  of  her  gregarious- 
ness.  She  was  talking  to  him  about  a  hundred  things 
with  animation  and  delight.  And  as  the  meal  pro- 

[36] 


DOUGHERTY'S  EYE-OPENER 

gressed  her  cheeks,  colorless  from  a  life  indoors,  took 
on  a  delicate  flush.  "  Big  Jim  "  looked  around  the 
room  and  saw  that  none  of  the  women  there  had  her 
charm.  And  then  he  thought  of  the  three  years  she 
had  suffered  immurement,  uncomplaining,  and  a  flush 
of  shame  warmed  him,  for  he  carried  fair  play  as  an 
item  in  his  creed. 

But  when  the  Honorable  Patrick  Corrigan,  leader 
in  Dougherty's  district  and  a  friend  of  his,  saw  them 
and  came  over  to  the  table,  matters  got  to  the  three- 
quarter  stretch.  The  Honorable  Patrick  was  a  gal- 
lant man,  both  in  deeds  and  words.  As  for  the  Blarney 
stone,  his  previous  actions  toward  it  must  have  been 
pronounced.  Heavy  damages  for  breach  of  promise 
could  surely  have  been  obtained  had  the  Blarney 
stone  seen  fit  to  sue  the  Honorable  Patrick. 

"  Jimmy,  old  man !  "  he  called ;  he  clapped  Dough- 
erty on  the  back;  he  shone  like  a  midday  sun  upon 
Delia. 

"Honorable  Mr.  Corrigan — Mrs.  Dougherty," 
said  "  Big  Jim." 

The  Honorable  Patrick  became  a  fountain  of  en- 
tertainment and  admiration.  The  waiter  had  to 
fetch  a  third  chair  for  him ;  he  made  another  at  the 
table,  and  the  wineglasses  were  refilled. 

"  You  selfish  old  rascal !"  he  exclaimed,  shaking  an 
arch  finger  at  "  Big  Jim."  "  to  have  kept  Mrs. 
Dougherty  a  secret  from  us." 

[37] 


TPIE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

And  then  "  Big  Jim "  Dougherty,  who  was  n<, 
talker,  sat  dumb,  and  saw  the  wife  who  had  dined 
every  evening  for  three  years  at  home,  blossom  like  a 
fairy  flower.  Quick,  witty,  charming,  full  of  light 
and  ready  talk,  she  received  the  experienced  attack 
of  the  Honorable  Patrick  on  the  field  of  repartee  and 
surprised,  vanquished,  delighted  him.  She  unfolded 
her  long-closed  petals  and  around  her  the  room 
became  a  garden.  They  tried  to  include  "  Bife 
Jim "  in  the  conversation,  but  he  was  without  a 
vocabulary. 

And  then  a  stray  bunch  of  politicians  and  good 
fellows  who  lived  for  sport  came  into  the  room.  They 
saw  "  Big  Jim  "  and  the  leader,  and  over  they  came 
and  were  made  acquainted  with  Mrs.  Dougherty.  And 
in  a  few  minutes  she  was  holding  a  salon.  Half  a 
dozen  men  surrounded  her,  courtiers  all,  and  six 
found  her  capable  of  charming.  "  Big  Jim "  sat, 
grim,  and  kept  saying  to  himself :  "  Three  years, 
three  years!" 

The  dinner  came  to  an  end.  The  Honorable  Pat- 
rick reached  for  Mrs.  Dougherty's  cloak;  but  that 
was  a  matter  of  action  instead  of  words,  and  Dough- 
erty's big  hand  got  it  first  by  two  seconds. 

While  the  farewells  were  being  said  at  the  door 
the  Honorable  Patrick  smote  Dougherty  mightily 
between  the  shoulders. 

"  Jimmy,  me  boy,"  he  declared,  in  a  giant  whis- 
[38] 


DOUGHERTY'S  EYE-OPENER 

per,  "  the  madam  is  a  jewel  of  the  first  water.  Ye' re 
a  lucky  dog." 

"  Big  Jim  "  walked  homeward  with  his  wife.  She 
seemed  quite  as  pleased  with  the  lights  and  show 
windows  in  the  streets  as  with  the  admiration  of  the 
men  in  Hoogley's.  As  they  passed  Seltzer's  they 
heard  the  sound  of  many  voices  in  the  cafe.  The 
boys  would  be  starting  the  drinks  around  now  and 
discussing  past  performances. 

At  the  door  of  their  home  Delia  paused.  The  pleas- 
ure of  the  outing  radiated  softly  from  her  counte- 
nance. She  could  not  hope  for  Jim  of  evenings,  but  the 
glory  of  this  one  would  lighten  her  lonely  hours  for 
a  long  time. 

"  Thank  you  for  taking  me  out,  Jim,"  she  said, 
gratefully.  "  You'll  be  going  back  up  to  Seltzer's 
now,  of  course." 

"To  -  -  with  Seltzer's,"  said  "  Big  Jim,"  em- 
phatically. "And  d Pat  Corrigan !  Does  he  think 

I  haven't  got  any  eyes  ?  " 

And  the  door  closed  behind  both  of  them. 


[39] 


"  LITTLE  SPECK  IN  GARNERED  FRUIT  " 

IHE  honeymoon  was  at  its  full.  There  was  a  flat 
with  the  reddest  of  new  carpets,  tasselled  portieres 
and  six  steins  with  pewter  lids  arranged  on  a  ledge 
above  the  wainscoting  of  the  dining-room.  The  wonder 
of  it  was  yet  upon  them.  Neither  of  them  had  ever 
seen  a  yellow  primrose  by  the  river's  brim;  but  if 
such  a  sight  had  met  their  eyes  at  that  time  it  would 
have  seemed  like — well,  whatever  the  poet  expected 
the  right  kind  of  people  to  see  in  it  besides  a  prim- 
rose. 

The  bride  sat  in  the  rocker  with  her  feet  resting 
upon  the  world.  She  was  wrapt  in  rosy  dreams  and  a 
kimono  of  the  same  hue.  She  wondered  what  the  peo- 
ple in  Greenland  and  Tasmania  and  Beloochistan 
were  saying  one  to  another  about  her  marriage  to 
Kid  McGarry.  Not  that  it  made  any  difference.  There 
was  no  welter-weight  from  London  to  the  Southern 
Cross  that  could  stand  up  four  hours — no;  four 
rounds — with  her  bridegroom.  And  he  had  been  hers 
for  three  weeks ;  and  the  crook  of  her  little  finger 
could  sway  him  more  than  the  fist  of  any  142-pounder 
in  the  world. 

Love,  when  it  is  ours,  is  the  other  name  for  self- 
[40] 


«  LITTLE  SPECK  IN  GARNERED  FRUIT ' 

abnegation  and  sacrifice.  When  it  belongs  to  people 
across  the  airshaft  it  means  arrogance  and  self- 
conceit. 

The  bride  crossed  her  oxfords  and  looked  thought- 
fully at  the  distemper  Cupids  on  the  ceiling. 

"  Precious,"  said  she,  with  the  air  of  Cleopatra 
asking  Antony  for  Rome  done  up  in  tissue  paper  and 
delivered  at  residence,  "  I  think  I  would  like  a  peach." 

Kid  McGarry  arose  and  put  on  his  coat  and  hat. 
He  was  serious,  shaven,  sentimental,  and  spry. 

"  All  right,"  said  he,  as  coolly  as  though  he  were 
only  agreeing  to  sign  articles  to  fight  the  champion 
of  England.  "  I'll  step  down  and  cop  one  out  for  you 
—see?" 

"  Don't  be  long,"  said  the  bride.  "I'll  be  lonesome 
without  my  naughty  boy.  Get  a  nice,  ripe  one." 

After  a  series  of  farewells  that  would  have  befitted 
an  imminent  voyage  to  foreign  parts,  the  Kid  went 
down  to  the  street. 

Here  he  not  unreasonably  hesitated,  for  the  season 
was  yet  early  spring,  and  there  seemed  small  chance 
of  wresting  anywhere  from  those  chill  streets  and 
stores  the  coveted  luscious  guerdon  of  summer's 
golden  prime. 

At  the  Italian's  fruit-stand  on  the  corner  he 
stopped  and  cast  a  contemptuous  eye  over  the  dis- 
play of  papered  oranges,  highly  polished  apples  and 
wan,  sun-hungry  bananas. 

[41] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

"  Gotta  da  peach  ?  "  asked  the  Kid  in  the  tongue  of 
Dante,  the  lover  of  lovers. 

"  Ah,  no,"  sighed  the  vender.  "  Not  for  one  mont 
com-a  da  peach.  Too  soon.  Gotta  da  nice-a  orange. 
Like-a  da  orange  ?  " 

Scornful,  the  Kid  pursued  his  quest.  He  entered 
the  all-night  chop-house,  cafe,  and  bowling-alley  of 
his  friend  and  admirer,  Justus  O'Callahan.  The 
O'Callahan  was  about  in  his  institution,  looking  for 
leaks. 

"  I  want  it  straight,"  said  the  Kid  to  him.  "  The 
old  woman  has  got  a  hunch  that  she  wants  a  peach. 
Now,  if  you've  got  a  peach,  Cal,  get  it  out  quick.  I 
want  it  and  others  like  it  if  you've  got  'em  in  plural 
quantities." 

"The  house  is  yours,"  said  O'Callahan.  "But 
there's  no  peach  in  it.  It's  too  soon.  I  don't  suppose 
you  could  even  find  'em  at  one  of  the  Broadway  joints. 
That's  too  bad.  When  a  lady  fixes  her  mouth  for  a 
certain  kind  of  fruit  nothing  else  won't  do.  It's  too 
late  now  to  find  any  of  the  first-class  fruiterers  open. 
But  if  you  think  the  missis  would  like  some  nice 
oranges  I've  just  got  a  box  of  fine  ones  in  that 
she  might " 

"  Much  obliged,  Cal.  It's  a  peach  proposition  right 
from  the  ring  of  the  gong.  I'll  try  further." 

The  time  was  nearly  midnight  as  the  Kid  walked 
down  the  West-Side  avenue.  Few  stores  were  open,  and 

[42] 


"  LITTLE  SPECK  IN  GARNERED  FRUIT  ' 

such  as   were  practically  hooted   at  the  idea   of   a 
peach. 

But  in  her  moated  flat  the  bride  confidently  awaited 
her  Persian  fruit.  A  champion  welter-weight  not  find 
a  peach? — not  stride  triumphantly  over  the  seasons 
and  the  zodiac  and  the  almanac  to  fetch  an  Amsden's 
June  or  a  Georgia  cling  to  his  owny-own? 

The  Kid's  eye  caught  sight  of  a  window  that  was 
lighted  and  gorgeous  with  nature's  most  entrancing 
colors.  The  light  suddenly  went  out.  The  Kid  sprinted 
and  caught  the  fruiterer  locking  his  door. 

"  Peaches  ?  "    said   he,   with  extreme   deliberation. 

"  Well,  no,  sir.  Not  for  three  or  four  weeks  yet.  I 
haven't  any  idea  where  you  might  find  some.  There 
may  be  a  few  in  town  from  under  the  glass,  but  they'd 
be  hard  to  locate.  Maybe  at  one  of  the  more  expen- 
sive hotels — some  place  where  there's  plenty  of  money 
to  waste.  I've  got  some  very  fine  oranges,  though — 
from  a  shipload  that  came  in  to-day." 

The  Kid  lingered  on  the  corner  for  a  moment, 
and  then  set  out  briskly  toward  a  pair  of  green  lights 
that  flanked  the  steps  of  a  building  down  a  dark 
side  street. 

"  Captain  around  anywhere  ?"  he  asked  of  the  desk 
sergeant  of  the  police  station. 

At  that  moment  the  captain  came  briskly  forward 
from  the  rear.  He  was  in  plain  clothes  and  had  a 
busy  air. 

[43] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

"  Hello,  Kid,"  he  said  to  the  pugilist.  "  Thought 
you  were  bridal-touring?  " 

"  Got  back  yesterday.  I'm  a  solid  citizen  now. 
Think  I'll  take  an  interest  in  municipal  doings.  How 
would  it  suit  you  to  get  into  Denver  Dick's  place  to- 
night, Cap?" 

"  Past  performances,"  said  the  captain,  twisting 
his  moustache.  "  Denver  was  closed  up  two  months 
ago." 

"  Correct,"  said  the  Kid.  "  Rafferty  chased  him 
out  of  the  Forty-third.  He's  running  in  your  precinct 
now,  and  his  game's  bigger  than  ever.  I'm  down  on 
this  gambling  business.  I  can  put  you  against  his 
game." 

"  In  my  precinct  ?  "  growled  the  captain.  "  Are  you 
sure,  Kid?  I'll  take  it  as  a  favor.  Have  you  got  the 
entree  ?  How  is  it  to  be  done  ?  " 

"  Hammers,"  said  the  Kid.  "  They  haven't  got  any 
steel  on  the  doors  yet.  You'll  need  ten  men.  No ;  they 
won't  let  me  in  the  place.  Denver  has  been  trying 
to  do  me.  He  thought  I  tipped  him  off  for  the  other 
raid.  I  didn't,  though.  You  want  to  hurry.  I've  got 
to  get  back  home.  The  house  is  only  three  blocks  from 
here." 

Before  ten  minutes  had  sped  the  captain  with  a 
dozen  men  stole  with  their  guide  into  the  hallway  of 
a  dark  and  virtuous-looking  building  in  which  many 
businesses  were  conducted  by  day. 

[44] 


"  LITTLE  SPECK  IN  GARNERED  FRUIT  ' 

"  Third  floor,  rear,"  said  the  Kid,  softly.  "  I'll  lead 
the  way." 

Two  axemen  faced  the  door  that  he  pointed  out  to 
them. 

"  It  seems  all  quiet,"  said  the  captain,  doubtfully. 
44  Are  you  sure  your  tip  is  straight  ?  " 

"Cut  away!"  said  the  Kid.  "It's  on  me  if  it 
ain't." 

The  axes  crashed  through  the  as  yet  unprotected 
door.  A  blaze  of  light  from  within  poured  through 
the  smashed  panels.  The  door  fell,  and  the  raiders 
sprang  into  the  room  with  their  guns  handy. 

The  big  room  was  furnished  with  the  gaudy  mag- 
nificence dear  to  Denver  Dick's  western  ideas.  Various 
well-patronized  games  were  in  progress.  About  fifty 
men  who  were  in  the  room  rushed  upon  the  police 
in  a  grand  break  for  personal  liberty.  The  plain- 
clothes  men  had  to  do  a  little  club-swinging.  More 
than  half  the  patrons  escaped. 

Denver  Dick  had  graced  his  game  with  his  own 
presence  that  night.  He  led  the  rush  that  was  in- 
tended to  sweep  away  the  smaller  body  of  raiders. 
But  when  he  saw  the  Kid  his  manner  became  personal. 
Being  in  the  heavy-weight  class  he  cast  himself  joy- 
fully upon  his  slighter  enemy,  and  they  rolled  down  a 
flight  of  stairs  in  each  other's  arms.  On  the  landing 
they  separated  and  arose,  and  then  the  Kid  was  able 
to  use  some  of  his  professional  tactics,  which  had  been 

[45] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

useless  to  him  while  in  the  excited  clutch  of  a  200- 
pound  sporting  gentleman  who  was  about  to  lose 
$20,000  worth  of  paraphernalia. 

After  vanquishing  his  adversary  the  Kid  hurried 
upstairs  and  through  the  gambling-room  into  a 
smaller  apartment  connecting  by  an  arched  doorway. 

Here  was  a  long  table  set  with  choicest  chinaware 
and  silver,  and  lavishly  furnished  with  food  of  that 
expensive  and  spectacular  sort  of  which  the  devotees 
of  sport  are  supposed  to  be  fond.  Here  again  was  to 
be  perceived  the  liberal  and  florid  taste  of  the  gen- 
tleman with  the  urban  cognomenal  prefix. 

A  No.  10  patent  leather  shoe  protruded  a  few  of 
its  inches  outside  the  tablecloth  along  the  floor.  The 
Kid  seized  this  and  plucked  forth  a  black  man  in  a 
white  tie  and  the  garb  of  a  servitor. 

"  Get  up !"  commanded  the  Kid.  "  Are  you  in 
charge  of  this  free  lunch  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sah,  I  was.  Has  they  done  pinched  us  ag'in, 
boss?" 

"  Looks  that  way.  Listen  to  me.  Are  there  any 
peaches  in  this  layout?  If  there  ain't  I'll  have  to 
throw  up  the  sponge." 

"  There  was  three  dozen,  sah,  when  the  game  opened 
this  evenin' ;  but  I  reckon  the  gentlemen  done  eat  'em 
all  up.  If  you'd  like  to  eat  a  fust-rate  orange,  sah, 
I  kin  find  you  some." 

"  Get  busy,"  ordered  the  Kid,  sternly,  "  and  move 
[46] 


"  LITTLE  SPECK  IN  GARNERED  FRUIT ' 

whatever  peach  crop  you've  got  quick  or  there'll  be 
trouble.  If  anybody  oranges  me  again  to-night,  I'll 
knock  his  face  off." 

The  raid  on  Denver  Dick's  high-priced  and  prodi- 
gal luncheon  revealed  one  lone,  last  peach  that  had 
escaped  the  epicurean  jaws  of  the  followers  of 
chance.  Into  the  Kid's  pocket  it  went,  and  that  in- 
defatigable forager  departed  immediately  with  his 
prize.  With  scarcely  a  glance  at  the  scene  on  the 
sidewalk  below,  where  the  officers  were  loading  their 
prisoners  into  the  patrol  wagons,  he  moved  homeward 
with  long,  swift  strides. 

His  heart  was  light  as  he  went.  So  rode  the  knights 
back  to  Camelot  after  perils  and  high  deeds  done  for 
their  ladies  fair.  The  Kid's  lady  had  commanded  him 
and  he  had  obeyed.  True,  it  was  but  a  peach  that  she 
had  craved;  but  it  had  been  no  small  deed  to  glean 
a  peach  at  midnight  from  that  wintry  city  where  yet 
the  February  snows  lay  like  iron.  She  had  asked  for  a 
peach ;  she  was  his  bride ;  in  his  pocket  the  peach  was 
warming  in  his  hand  that  held  it  for  fear  that  it 
might  fall  out  and  be  lost. 

On  the  way  the  Kid  turned  in  at  an  all-night  drug 
store  and  said  to  the  spectacled  clerk: 

"  Say,  sport,  I  wish  you'd  size  up  this  rib  of  mine 
and  see  if  it's  broke.  I  was  in  a  little  scrap  and 
bumped  down  a  flight  or  two  of  stairs." 

The  druggist  made  an  examination. 
[47] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

"  It  isn't  broken,"  was  his  diagnosis ;  "  but  you 
have  a  bruise  there  that  looks  like  you'd  fallen  off 
the  Flatiron  twice." 

"  That's  all  right,"  said  the  Kid.  "  Let's  have  your 
clothesbrush,  please." 

The  bride  waited  in  the  rosy  glow  of  the  pink 
lamp  shade.  The  miracles  were  not  all  passed  away. 
By  breathing  a  desire  for  some  slight  thing — a 
flower,  a  pomegranate,  a — oh,  yes,  a  peach — she 
could  send  forth  her  man  into  the  night,  into  the 
world  which  could  not  withstand  him,  and  he  would 
do  her  bidding. 

And  now  he  stood  by  her  chair  and  laid  the  peach 
in  her  hand. 

"Naughty  boy!"  she  said,  fondly.  "Did  I  say  a 
peach?  I  think  I  would  much  rather  have  had  an 
orange." 

Blest  be  the  bride. 


[48] 


THE  HARBINGER 

LONG  before  the  springtide  is  felt  in  the  dull  bosom 
of  the  yokel  does  the  city  man  know  that  the  grass- 
green  goddess  is  upon  her  throne.  He  sits  at  his 
breakfast  eggs  and  toast,  begirt  by  stone  walls,  opens 
his  morning  paper  and  sees  journalism  leave  vernal- 
ism  at  the  post. 

For,  whereas,  spring's  couriers  were  once  the  evi- 
dence of  our  finer  senses,  now  the  Associated  Press 
does  the  trick. 

The  warble  of  the  first  robin  in  Hackensack,  the 
stirring  of  the  maple  sap  in  Bennington,  the  bud- 
ding of  the  pussy  willows  along  Main  Street  in  Syra- 
cuse, the  first  chirp  of  the  bluebird,  the  swan  song 
of  the  Blue  Point,  the  annual  tornado  in  St.  Louis, 
the  plaint  of  the  peach  pessimist  from  Pompton, 
N.  J.,  the  regular  visit  of  the  tame  wild  goose  with  a 
broken  leg  to  the  pond  near  Bilgewater  Junction, 
the  base  attempt  of  the  Drug  Trust  to  boost  the 
price  of  quinine  foiled  in  the  House  by  Congressman 
Jinks,  the  first  tall  poplar  struck  by  lightning  and 
the  usual  stunned  picknickers  who  had  taken  refuge, 
the  first  crack  of  the  ice  jam  in  the  Allegheny 
River,  the  finding  of  a  violet  in  its  mossy  bed  by 

[49] 


VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

the  correspondent  at  Round  Corners — these  are  tK< 
advance  signs  of  the  burgeoning  season  that  are 
wired  into  the  wise  city,  while  the  farmer  sees  noth- 
ing but  winter  upon  his  dreary  fields. 

But  these  be  mere  externals.  The  true  harbinger 
is  the  heart.  When  Strephon  seeks  his  Chloe  and 
Mike  his  Maggie,  then  only  is  spring  arrived  and  the 
newspaper  report  of  the  five-foot  rattler  killed  in 
Squire  Pettigrew's  pasture  confirmed. 

Ere  the  first  violet  blew,  Mr.  Peters,  Mr.  Ragsdale 
and  Mr.  Kidd  sat  together  on  a  bench  in  Union 
Square  and  conspired.  Mr.  Peters  was  the  D'Arta- 
gnan  of  the  loafers  three.  He  was  the  dingiest,  the 
laziest,  the  sorriest  brown  blot  against  the  green 
background  of  any  bench  in  the  park.  But  just  then 
he  was  the  most  important  of  the  trio. 

Mr.  Peters  had  a  wife.  This  had  not  heretofore 
affected  his  standing  with  Ragsy  and  Kidd.  But  to- 
day it  invested  him  with  a  peculiar  interest.  His 
friends,  having  escaped  matrimony,  had  shown  a 
disposition  to  deride  Mr.  Peters  for  his  venture  on 
that  troubled  sea.  But  at  last  they  had  been  forced 
to  acknowledge  that  either  he  had  been  gifted  with 
a  large  foresight  or  that  he  was  one  of  Fortune's 
lucky  sons. 

For,  Mrs.  Peters  had  a  dollar.  A  whole  dollar  bill, 
good  and  receivable  by  the  Government  for  customs, 
taxes  and  all  public  dues.  How  to  get  possession  of 

[50] 


THE  HARBINGER 

that  dollar  was  the  question  up  for  discussion  by 
the  three  musty  musketeers. 

"  How  do  you  know  it  was  a  dollar? "  asked 
Ragsy,  the  immensity  of  the  sum  inclining  him  to 
scepticism. 

"  The  coalman  seen  her  have  it,"  said  Mr.  Peters. 
"  She  went  out  and  done  some  washing  yesterday. 
And  look  what  she  give  me  for  breakfast — the  heel 
of  a  loaf  and  a  cup  of  coffee,  and  her  with  a  dollar !  " 

"  It's  fierce,"  said  Ragsy. 

"  Say,  we  go  up  and  punch  'er  and  stick  a  towel 
in  'er  mouth  and  cop  the  coin,"  suggested  Kidd, 
viciously.  "  Y'  ain't  afraid  of  a  woman,  are  you  ?  " 

"  She  might  holler  and  have  us  pinched,"  de- 
murred Ragsy.  "  I  don't  believe  in  slugging  no 
woman  in  a  houseful  of  people." 

"  Gent'men,"  said  Mr.  Peters,  severely,  through  his 
russet  stubble,  "  remember  that  you  are  speaking  of 
my  wife.  A  man  who  would  lift  his  hand  to  a  lady 
except  in  the  way  of " 

"  Maguire,"  said  Ragsy,  pointedly,  "  has  got  his 
bock  beer  sign  out.  If  we  had  a  dollar  we  could " 

"  Hush  up  !  "  said  Mr.  Peters,  licking  his  lips.  "  We 
got  to  get  that  case  note  somehow,  boys.  Ain't  what's 
a  man's  wife's  his?  Leave  it  to  me.  I'll  go  over  to 
the  house  and  get  it.  Wait  here  for  me." 

"  I've  seen  'em  give  up  quick,  and  tell  you  where 
it's  hid  if  you  kick  'em  in  the  ribs,"  said  Kidd. 

[51] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

"  No  man  would  kick  a  woman,"  said  Peters,  vir- 
tuously. "  A  little  choking — just  a  touch  on  the  wind- 
pipe— that  gets  away  with  'em — and  no  marks  left. 
Wait  for  me.  I'll  bring  back  that  dollar,  boys." 

High  up  in  a  tenement-house  between  Second  Ave- 
nue and  the  river  lived  the  Peterses.in  a  back  room 
so  gloomy  that  the  landlord  blushed  to  take  the  rent 
for  it.  Mrs.  Peters  worked  at  sundry  times,  doing 
odd  jobs  of  scrubbing  and  washing.  Mr.  Peters  had 
a  pure,  unbroken  record  of  five  years  without  having 
earned  a  penny.  And  yet  they  clung  together,  shar- 
ing each  other's  hatred  and  misery,  being  creatures 
of  habit.  Of  habit,  the  power  that  keeps  the  earth 
from  flying  to  pieces;  though  there  is  some  silly 
theory  of  gravitation. 

Mrs.  Peters  reposed  her  200  pounds  on  the  safer 
of  the  two  chairs  and  gazed  stolidly  out  the  one  win- 
dow at  the  brick  wall  opposite.  Her  eyes  were  red 
and  damp.  The  furniture  could  have  been  carried 
away  on  a  pushcart,  but  no  pushcart  man  would  have 
removed  it  as  a  gift. 

The  door  opened  to  admit  Mr.  Peters.  His  fox- 
terrier  eyes  expressed  a  wish.  His  wife's  diagnosis 
located  correctly  the  seat  of  it,  but  misread  it  hun- 
ger instead  of  thirst. 

"  You'll  get  nothing  more  to  eat  till  night,"  she 
said,  looking  out  of  the  window  again.  "  Take  your 
hound-dog's  face  out  of  the  room." 

[52] 


THE  HARBINGER 

Mr.  Peters's  eye  calculated  the  distance  between 
them.  By  taking  her  by  surprise  it  might  be  pos- 
sible to  spring  upon  her,  overthrow  her,  and  apply 
the  throttling  tactics  of  which  he  had  boasted  to 
his  waiting  comrades.  True,  it  had  been  only  a  boast; 
never  yet  had  he  dared  to  lay  violent  hands  upon 
her ;  but  with  the  thoughts  of  the  delicious,  cool  bock 
or  Culmbacher  bracing  his  nerves,  he  was  near  to 
upsetting  his  own  theories  of  the  treatment  due  by 
a  gentleman  to  a  lady.  But,  with  his  loafer's  love  for 
the  more  artistic  and  less  strenuous  way,  he  chose 
diplomacy  first,  the  high  card  in  the  game — the  as- 
sumed attitude  of  success  already  attained. 

"  You  have  a  dollar,"  he  said,  loftily,  but  signifi- 
cantly in  the  tone  that  goes  with  the  lighting  of  a 
cigar — when  the  properties  are  at  hand. 

"  I  have,"  said  Mrs.  Peters,  producing  the  bill 
from  her  bosom  and  crackling  it,  teasingly. 

"  I  am  offered  a  position  in  a — in  a  tea  store," 
said  Mr.  Peters.  "  I  am  to  begin  work  to-morrow.  But 
it  will  be  necessary  for  me  to  buy  a  pair  of " 

"  You  are  a  liar,"  said  Mrs.  Peters,  reinterring 
the  note.  "  No  tea  store,  nor  no  A  B  C  store,  nor 
no  junk  shop  would  have  you.  I  rubbed  the  skin  off 
both  me  hands  washin'  jumpers  and  overalls  to  make 
that  dollar.  Do  you  think  it  come  out  of  them  suds 
to  buy  the  kind  you  put  into  you  ?  Skiddoo !  Get  your 
mind  off  of  money." 

[53] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

Evidently  the  poses  of  Talleyrand  were  not  worth 
one  hundred  cents  on  that  dollar.  But  diplomacy  is 
dexterous.  The  artistic  temperament  of  Mr.  Peters 
lifted  him  by  the  straps  of  his  congress  gaiters  and 
set  him  on  new  ground.  He  called  up  a  look  of  des- 
perate melancholy  to  his  eyes. 

"Clara,"  he  said,  hollowly,  "  to  struggle  further 
is  useless.  You  have  always  misunderstood  me. 
Heaven  knows  I  have  striven  with  all  my  might  to 
keep  my  head  above  the  waves  of  misfortune, 
but " 

"  Cut  out  the  rainbow  of  hope  and  that  stuff  about 
walkin'  one  by  one  through  the  narrow  isles  of 
Spain,"  said  Mrs.  Peters,  with  a  sigh.  "  I've  heard 
it  so  often.  There's  an  ounce  bottle  of  carbolic  on 
the  shelf  behind  the  empty  coffee  can.  Drink  hearty." 

Mr.  Peters  reflected.  What  next!  The  old  expedi- 
ents had  failed.  The  two  musty  musketeers  were 
awaiting  him  hard  by  the  ruined  chateau — that  is 
to  say,  on  a  park  bench  with  rickety  cast-iron  legs. 
His  honor  was  at  stake.  He  had  engaged  to  storm 
the  castle  single-handed  and  bring  back  the  treas- 
ure that  was  to  furnish  them  wassail  and  solace.  And 
all  that  stood  between  him  and  the  coveted  dollar 
was  his  wife,  once  a  little  girl  whom  he  could — aha ! 
— why  not  again?  Once  with  soft  words  he  could,  as 
they  say,  twist  her  around  his  little  finger.  Why  not 
again?  Not  for  years  had  he  tried  it.  Grim  poverty 

[64] 


THE  HARBINGER 

and  mutual  hatred  had  killed  all  that.  But  Ragsy 
and  Kidd  were  waiting  for  him  to  bring  the  dollar! 

Mr.  Peters  took  a  surreptitiously  keen  look  at  his 
wife.  Her  formless  bulk  overflowed  the  chair.  She 
kept  her  eyes  fixed  out  the  window  in  a  strange  kind 
of  trance.  Her  eyes  showed  that  she  had  been  recently 
weeping. 

"  I  wonder,"  said  Mr.  Peters  to  himself,  "  if  there'd 
be  anything  in  it." 

The  window  was  open  upon  its  outlook  of  brick 
walls  and  drab,  barren  back  yards.  Except  for  the 
mildness  of  the  air  that  entered  it  might  have  been 
midwinter  yet  in  the  city  that  turns  such  a  frown- 
ing face  to  besieging  spring.  But  spring  doesn't 
come  with  the  thunder  of  cannon.  She  is  a  sapper 
and  a  miner,  and  you  must  capitulate. 

"  I'U  try  it,"  said  Mr.  Peters  to  himself,  making  a 
wry  face. 

He  went  up  to  his  wife  and  put  his  arm  across 
her  shoulders. 

"  Clara,  darling,"  he  said  in  tones  that  shouldn't 
have  fooled  a  baby  seal,  "  why  should  we  have  hard 
words  ?  Ain't  you  my  own  tootsum  wootsums  ?  " 

A  black  mark  against  you,  Mr.  Peters,  in  the  sa- 
cred ledger  of  Cupid.  Charges  of  attempted  graft  are 
filed  against  you,  and  of  forgery  and  utterance  of 
two  of  Love's  holiest  of  appellations. 

But  the  miracle  of  spring  was  wrought.  Into  the 
[55] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

back  room  over  the  back  alley  between  the  black 
walls  had  crept  the  Harbinger.  It  was  ridiculous, 
and  yet —  -  Well,  it  is  a  rat  trap,  and  you,  madam 
and  sir  and  all  of  us,  are  in  it. 

Red  and  fat  and  crying  like  Niobe  or  Niagara, 
Mrs.  Peters  threw  her  arms  around  her  lord  and 
dissolved  upon  him.  Mr.  Peters  would  have  striven 
to  extricate  the  dollar  bill  from  its  deposit  vault, 
but  his  arms  were  bound  to  his  sides. 

"  Do  you  love  me,  James?  "  asked  Mrs.  Peters. 

"  Madly,"  said  James,  "  but " 

"  You  are  ill !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Peters.  "  Why  are 
you  so  pale  and  tired  looking?  " 

"  I  feel  weak,"  said  Mr.  Peters.  "  I " 

"  Oh,  wait ;  I  know  what  it  is.  Wait,  James.  I'll 
be  back  in  a  minute." 

With  a  parting  hug  that  revived  in  Mr.  Peters 
recollections  of  the  Terrible  Turk,  his  wife  hurried 
out  of  the  room  and  down  the  stairs. 

Mr.  Peters  hitched  his  thumbs  under  his  sus- 
penders. 

"  All  right,"  he  confided  to  the  ceiling.  "  I've  got 
her  going.  I  hadn't  any  idea  the  old  girl  was  soft 
any  more  under  the  foolish  rib.  Well,  sir;  ain't  I 
the  Claude  Melnotte  of  the  lower  East  Side?  What? 
It's  a  100  to  1  shot  that  I  get  the  dollar.  I  wonder 
what  she  went  out  for.  I  guess  she's  gone  to  tell 
Mrs.  Muldoon  on  the  second  floor,  that  we're  recon- 

[56] 


THE  HARBINGER 

ciled.  I'll  remember  this.  Soft  soap !  And  Ragsy  was 
talking  about  slugging  her !  " 

Mrs.  Peters  came  back  with  a  bottle  of  sarsapa- 
rilla. 

"  I'm  glad  I  happened  to  have  that  dollar,"  she 
said.  "  You're  all  run  down,  honey." 

Mr.  Peters  had  a  tablespoonful  of  the  stuff  in- 
serted into  him.  Then  Mrs.  Peters  sat  on  his  lap 
and  murmured: 

"  Call  me  tootsum  wootsums  again,  James." 

He  sat  still,  held  there  by  his  materialized  god- 
dess of  spring. 

Spring  had  come. 

On  the  bench  in  Union  Square  Mr.  Ragsdale  and 
Mr.  Kidd  squirmed,  tongue-parched,  awaiting 
D'Artagnan  and  his  dollar. 

"  I  wish  I  had  choked  her  at  first,"  said  Mr.  Peters 
to  himself. 


[57] 


WHILE  THE  AUTO  WAITS 

PROMPTLY  at  the  beginning  of  twilight,  came 
again  to  that  quiet  corner  of  that  quiet,  small  park 
the  girl  in  gray.  She  sat  upon  a  bench  and  read  a 
book,  for  there  was  yet  to  come  a  half  hour  in  which 
print  could  be  accomplished. 

To  repeat:  Her  dress  was  gray,  and  plain  enough 
to  mask  its  impeccancy  of  style  and  fit.  A  large- 
meshed  veil  imprisoned  her  turban  hat  and  a  face  that 
shone  through  it  with  a  calm  and  unconscious  beauty. 
She  had  come  there  at  the  same  hour  on  the  day 
previous,  and  on  the  day  before  that;  and  there  was 
one  who  knew  it. 

The  young  man  who  knew  it  hovered  near,  relying 
upon  burnt  sacrifices  to  the  great  joss,  Luck.  His 
piety  was  rewarded,  for,  in  turning  a  page,  her  book 
slipped  from  her  fingers  and  bounded  from  the  bench 
a  full  yard  away. 

The  young  man  pounced  upon  it  with  instant  avid- 
ity, returning  it  to  its  owner  with  that  air  that  seems 
to  flourish  in  parks  and  public  places — a  compound 
of  gallantry  and  hope,  tempered  with  respect  for  the 
policeman  on  the  beat.  In  a  pleasant  voice,  he  risked 
an  inconsequent  remark  upon  the  weather — that  in- 

[58] 


WHILE  THE  AUTO  WAITS 

troductory  topic  responsible  for  so  much  of  the 
world's  unhappiness — and  stood  poised  for  a  moment, 
awaiting  his  fate. 

The  girl  looked  him  over  leisurely ;  at  his  ordinary, 
neat  dress  and  his  features  distinguished  by  nothing 
particular  in  the  way  of  expression. 

"  You  may  sit  down,  if  you  like,"  she  said,  in  a 
full,  deliberate  contralto.  "  Really,  I  would  like  to 
have  you  do  so.  The  light  is  too  bad  for  reading. 
I  would  prefer  to  talk." 

The  vassal  of  Luck  slid  upon  the  seat  by  her  side 
with  complaisance. 

"  Do  you  know,"  he  said,  speaking  the  formula 
with  which  park  chairmen  open  their  meetings, 
"  that  you  are  quite  the  stunningest  girl  I  have  seen 
in  a  long  time?  I  had  my  eye  on  you  yesterday.  Didn't 
know  somebody  was  bowled  over  by  those  pretty 
lamps  of  yours,  did  you,  honeysuckle?  " 

"  Whoever  you  are,"  said  the  girl,  in  icy  tones, 
"  you  must  remember  that  I  am  a  lady.  I  will  excuse 
the  remark  you  have  just  made  because  the  mistake 
was,  doubtless,  not  an  unnatural  one — in  your  circle. 
I  asked  you  to  sit  down;  if  the  invitation  must 
constitute  me  your  honeysuckle,  consider  it  with- 
drawn." 

"  I  earnestly  beg  your  pardon,"  pleaded  the  young 
man.  His  expression  of  satisfaction  had  changed  to 
one  of  penitence  and  humility.  "  It  was  my  f ault, 

[59]  " 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

You  know — I  mean,  there  are  girls  in  parks,  you 
know — that  is,  of  course,  you  don't  know,  but " 

"  Abandon  the  subject,  if  you  please.  Of  course 
I  know.  Now,  tell  me  about  these  people  passing 
and  crowding,  each  way,  along  these  paths.  Where 
are  they  going?  Why  do  they  hurry  so?  Are  they 
happy  ?  " 

The  young  man  had  promptly  abandoned  his  air 
of  coquetry.  His  cue  was  now  for  a  waiting  part; 
he  could  not  guess  the  role  he  would  be  expected  to 
play. 

"  It  is  interesting  to  watch  them,"  he  replied,  pos- 
tulating her  mood.  "  It  is  the  wonderful  drama  of 
life.  Some  are  going  to  supper  and  some  to — er — 
other  places.  One  wonders  what  their  histories  are." 

"  I  do  not,"  said  the  girl ;  "  I  am  not  so  inquisi- 
tive. I  come  here  to  sit  because  here,  only,  can  I  be 
near  the  great,  common,  throbbing  heart  of  hu- 
manity. My  part  in  life  is  cast  where  its  beats  are 
never  felt.  Can  you  surmise  why  I  spoke  to  you, 
Mr. ?" 

"  Parkenstacker,"  supplied  the  young  man.  Then 
he  looked  eager  and  hopeful. 

"  No,"  said  the  girl,  holding  up  a  slender  finger, 
and  smiling  slightly.  "  You  would  recognize  it  im- 
mediately. It  is  impossible  to  keep  one's  name  out  of 
print.  Or  even  one's  portrait.  This  veil  and  this  hat 
of  my  maid  furnish  me  with  an  incog.  You  should 

[60] 


WHILE  THE  AUTO  WAITS 

have  seen  the  chauffeur  stare  at  it  when  he  thought 
I  did  not  see.  Candidly,  there  are  five  or  six  names 
that  belong  in  the  holy  of  holies,  and  mine,  by  the 
accident  of  birth,  is  one  of  them.  I  spoke  to  you, 
Mr.  Stackenpot " 

"  Parkenstacker,"  corrected  the  young  man,  mod- 
estly. 

"  — Mr.  Parkenstacker,  because  I  wanted  to  talk, 
for  once,  with  a  natural  man — one  unspoiled  by  the 
despicable  gloss  of  wealth  and  supposed  social  su- 
periority. Oh!  you  do  not  know  how  weary  I  am  of 
it — money,  money,  money !  And  of  the  men  who  sur- 
round me,  dancing  like  little  marionettes  all  cut  by 
the  same  pattern.  I  am  sick  of  pleasure,  of  jewels, 
of  travel,  of  society,  of  luxuries  of  all  kinds." 

"  I  always  had  an  idea,"  ventured  the  young  man, 
hesitatingly,  "  that  money  must  be  a  pretty  good 
thing." 

"  A  competence  is  to  be  desired.  But  when  you 

have  so  many  millions  that !"  She  concluded  the 

sentence  with  a  gesture  of  despair.  "  It  is  the  mo- 
notony of  it,"  she  continued,  "  that  palls.  Drives, 
dinners,  theatres,  balls,  suppers,  with  the  gilding  of 
superfluous  wealth  over  it  all.  Sometimes  the  very 
tinkle  of  the  ice  in  my  champagne  glass  nearly  drives 
me  mad." 

Mr.  Parkenstacker  looked  ingenuously  interested. 

"  I  have  always  liked,"  he  said,  <6  to  read  and  hear 
[61] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

about  the  ways  of  wealthy  and  fashionable  folks.  I 
suppose  I  am  a  bit  of  a  snob.  But  I  like  to  have  my 
information  accurate.  Now,  I  had  formed  the  opin- 
ion that  champagne  is  cooled  in  the  bottle  and  not  by 
placing  ice  in  the  glass." 

The  girl  gave  a  musical  laugh  of  genuine  amuse- 
ment. 

"  You  should  know,"  she  explained,  in  an  indul- 
gent tone,  "  that  we  of  the  non-useful  class  depend 
for  our  amusement  upon  departure  from  precedent. 
Just  now  it  is  a  fad  to  put  ice  in  champagne.  The 
idea  was  originated  by  a  visiting  Prince  of  Tartary 
while  dining  at  the  Waldorf.  It  will  soon  give  way 
to  some  other  whim.  Just  as  at  a  dinner  party  this 
week  on  Madison  Avenue  a  green  kid  glove  was  laid 
by  the  plate  of  each  guest  to  be  put  on  and  used  while 
eating  olives." 

"  I  see,"  admitted  the  young  man,  humbly.  "  These 
special  diversions  of  the  inner  circle  do  not  become 
familiar  to  the  common  public." 

"  Sometimes,"  continued  the  girl,  acknowledging 
his  confession  of  error  by  a  slight  bow,  "  I  have 
thought  that  if  I  ever  should  love  a  man  it  would  be 
one  of  lowly  station.  One  who  is  a  worker  and  not  a 
drone.  But,  doubtless,  the  claims  of  caste  and  wealth 
will  prove  stronger  than  my  inclination.  Just  now 
I  am  besieged  by  two.  One  is  a  Grand  Duke  of  a 
German  principality.  I  think  he  has,  or  has  had,  a 

[62] 


WHILE  THE  AUTO  WAITS 

wife,  somewhere,  driven  mad  by  his  intemperance  and 
cruelty.  The  other  is  an  English  Marquis,  so  cold 
and  mercenary  that  I  even  prefer  the  diabolism  of  the 
Duke.  What  is  it  that  impels  me  to  tell  you  these 
things,  Mr.  Packenstarker  ?  " 

"  Parkenstacker,"  breathed  the  young  man.  "  In- 
deed, you  cannot  know  how  much  I  appreciate  your 
confidences." 

The  girl  contemplated  him  with  the  calm,  imper- 
sonal regard  that  befitted  the  difference  in  their  sta- 
tions. 

"  What  is  your  line  of  business,  Mr.  Parken- 
stacker?" she  asked. 

"  A  very  humble  one.  But  I  hope  to  rise  in  the 
world.  Were  you  really  in  earnest  when  you  said 
that  you  could  love  a  man  of  lowly  position  ?  " 

"  Indeed  I  was.  But  I  said  '  might.'  There  is  the 
Grand  Duke  and  the  Marquis,  you  know.  Yes;  no 
calling  could  be  too  humble  were  the  man  what  I 
would  wish  him  to  be." 

"  I  work,"  declared  Mr.  Parkenstacker,  "  in  a  res- 
taurant." 

The  girl  shrank  slightly. 

"  Not  as  a  waiter  ?  "  she  said,  a  little  imploringly. 
"  Labor  is  noble,  but — personal  attendance,  you 
know — valets  and " 

"  I  am  not  a  waiter.  I  am  cashier  in  " — on  the 
street  they  faced  that  bounded  the  opposite  side  of 

[63] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

the  park  was  the  brilliant  electric  sign  "RESTAU- 
RANT "  —  "  I  am  cashier  in  that  restaurant  you  see 
there." 

The  girl  consulted  a  tiny  watch  set  in  a  bracelet  of 
rich  design  upon  her  left  wrist,  and  rose,  hurriedly. 
She  thrust  her  book  into  a  glittering  reticule  sus- 
pended from  her  waist,  for  which,  however,  the  book 
was  too  large. 

"  Why  are  you  not  at  work  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  am  on  the  night  turn,"  said  the  young  man  ; 
"  it  is  yet  an  hour  before  my  period  begins.  May  I 
not  hope  to  see  you  again  ?  " 

"I  do  not  know.  Perhaps  —  but  the  whim  may  not 
seize  me  again.  I  must  go  quickly  now.  There  is  a 
dinner,  and  a  box  at  the  play  —  and,  oh  !  the  same  old 
round.  Perhaps  you  noticed  an  automobile  at  the 
upper  corner  of  the  park  as  you  came.  One  with  a 
white  body." 

"  And  red  running  gear  ?  "  asked  the  young  man, 
knitting  his  brows  reflectively. 

"  Yes.  I  always  come  in  that.  Pierre  waits  for 
me  there.  He  supposes  me  to  be  shopping  in  the  de- 
partment store  across  the  square.  Conceive  of  the 
bondage  of  the  life  wherein  we  must  deceive  even  our 
chauffeurs.  Good-night." 

"  But  it  is  dark  now,"  said  Mr.  Parkenstacker, 
"  and  the  park  is  full  of  rude  men.  May  I  not 


[64] 


WHILE  THE  AUTO  WAITS 

"  If  you  have  the  slightest  regard  for  my  wishes," 
said  the  girl,  firmly,  "  you  will  remain  at  this  bench 
for  ten  minutes  after  I  have  left.  I  do  not  mean  to 
accuse  you,  but  you  are  probably  aware  that  autos 
generally  bear  the  monogram  of  their  owner.  Again, 
good-night." 

Swift  and  stately  she  moved  away  through  the 
dusk.  The  young  man  watched  her  graceful  form 
as  she  reached  the  pavement  at  the  park's  edge,  and 
turned  up  along  it  toward  the  corner  where  stood  the 
automobile.  Then  he  treacherously  and  unhesitat- 
ingly began  to  dodge  and  skim  among  the  park  trees 
and  shrubbery  in  a  course  parallel  to  her  route,  keep- 
ing her  well  in  sight. 

When  she  reached  the  corner  she  turned  her  head 
to  glance  at  the  motor  car,  and  then  passed  it,  con- 
tinuing on  across  the  street.  Sheltered  behind  a  con- 
venient standing  cab,  the  young  man  followed  her 
movements  closely  with  his  eyes.  Passing  down  the 
sidewalk  of  the  street  opposite  the  park,  she  entered 
the  restaurant  with  the  blazing  sign.  The  place  was 
one  of  those  frankly  glaring  establishments,  all  white 
paint  and  glass,  where  one  may  dine  cheaply  and 
conspicuously.  The  girl  penetrated  the  restaurant  to 
some  retreat  at  its  rear,  whence  she  quickly  emerged 
without  her  hat  and  veil. 

The  cashier's  desk  was  well  to  the  front.  A  red- 
haired  girl  on  the  stool  climbed  down,  glancing 

[65] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

pointedly  at  the  clock  as  she  did  so.  The  girl  in  gray 
mounted  in  her  place. 

The  young  man  thrust  his  hands  into  his  pockets 
and  walked  slowly  back  along  the  sidewalk.  At  the 
corner  his  foot  struck  a  small,  paper-covered  volume 
lying  there,  sending  it  sliding  to  the  edge  of  the 
turf.  By  its  picturesque  cover  he  recognized  it  as 
the  book  the  girl  had  been  reading.  He  picked  it  up 
carelessly,  and  saw  that  its  title  was  "  New  Arabian 
Nights,"  the  author  being  of  the  name  of  Stevenson. 
He  dropped  it  again  upon  the  grass,  and  lounged, 
irresolute,  for  a  minute.  Then  he  stepped  into  the 
automobile,  reclined  upon  the  cushions,  and  said  two 
words  to  the  chauffeur : 

"  Club,  Henri." 


[66] 


A  COMEDY  IN  RUBBER 

ONE  may  hope,  in  spite  of  the  metaphorists,  to 
avoid  the  breath  of  the  deadly  upas  tree ;  one  may,  by 
great  good  fortune,  succeed  in  blacking  the  eye  of  the 
basilisk ;  one  might  even  dodge  the  attentions  of  Cer- 
berus and  Argus,  but  no  man,  alive  or  dead,  can  es- 
cape the  gaze  of  the  Rubberer. 

New  York  is  the  Caoutchouc  City.  There  are  many, 
of  course,  who  go  their  ways,  making  money,  without 
turning  to  the  right  or  the  left,  but  there  is  a  tribe 
abroad  wonderfully  composed,  like  the  Martians, 
solely  of  eyes  and  means  of  locomotion. 

These  devotees  of  curiosity  swarm,  like  flies,  in  a 
moment  in  a  struggling,  breathless  circle  about  the 
scene  of  an  unusual  occurrence.  If  a  workman  opens 
a  manhole,  if  a  street  car  runs  over  a  man  from 
North  Tarrytown,  if  a  little  boy  drops  an  egg  on 
his  way  home  from  the  grocery,  if  a  casual  house  or 
two  drops  into  the  subway,  if  a  lady  loses  a  nickel 
through  a  hole  in  the  lisle  thread,  if  the  police  drag 
a  telephone  and  a  racing  chart  forth  from  an  Ibsen 
Society  reading-room,  if  Senator  Depew  or  Mr. 
Chuck  Connors  walks  out  to  take  the  air — if  any  of 
these  incidents  or  accidents  takes  place,  you  will  see 

[67] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

the  mad,  irresistible  rush  of  the  "  rubber  "  tribe  to 
the  spot. 

The  importance  of  the  event  does  not  count.  They 
gaze  with  equal  interest  and  absorption  at  a  cho- 
rus girl  or  at  a  man  painting  a  liver  pill  sign.  They 
will  form  as  deep  a  cordon  around  a  man  with  a  club- 
foot  as  they  will  around  a  balked  automobile.  They 
have  the  furor  rubberendi.  They  are  optical  glut- 
tons, feasting  and  fattening  on  the  misfortunes  of 
their  fellow  beings.  They  gloat  and  pore  and  glare 
and  squint  and  stare  with  their  fishy  eyes  like  goggle- 
eyed  perch  at  the  hook  baited  with  calamity. 

It  would  seem  that  Cupid  would  find  these  ocular 
vampires  too  cold  game  for  his  calorific  shafts,  but 
have  we  not  yet  to  discover  an  immune  even  among 
the  Protozoa?  Yes,  beautiful  Romance  descended 
upon  two  of  this  tribe,  and  love  came  into  their 
hearts  as  they  crowded  about  the  prostrate  form 
of  a  man  who  had  been  run  over  by  a  brewery 
wagon. 

William  Pry  was  the  first  on  the  spot.  He  was  an 
expert  at  such  gatherings.  With  an  expression  of  in- 
tense happiness  on  his  features,  he  stood  over  the  vic- 
tim of  the  accident,  listening  to  his  groans  as  if  to 
the  sweetest  music.  When  the  crowd  of  spectators  had 
swelled  to  a  closely  packed  circle  William  saw  a  vio- 
lent commotion  in  the  crowd  opposite  him.  Men  were 
hurled  aside  like  ninepins  by  the  impact  of  some  mov- 

[68] 


A  COMEDY  IN  RUBBER 

ing  body  that  clove  them  like  the  rush  of  a  tornado. 
With  elbows,  umbrella,  hat-pin,  tongue,  and  finger- 
nails doing  their  duty,  Violet  Seymour  forced  her 
way  through  the  mob  of  onlookers  to  the  first  row. 
Strong  men  who  even  had  been  able  to  secure  a  seat 
on  the  5.30  Harlem  express  staggered  back  like  chil- 
dren as  she  bucked  centre.  Two  large  lady  spectators 
who  had  seen  the  Duke  of  Roxburgh  married  and 
had  often  blocked  traffic  on  Twenty-third  Street  fell 
back  into  the  second  row  with  ripped  shirt-waists 
when  Violet  had  finished  with  them.  William  Pry  loved 
her  at  first  sight. 

The  ambulance  removed  the  unconscious  agent  of 
Cupid.  William  and  Violet  remained  after  the  crowd 
had  dispersed.  They  were  true  Rubberers.  People  who 
leave  the  scene  of  an  accident  with  the  ambulance 
have  not  genuine  caoutchouc  in  the  cosmogony  of 
their  necks.  The  delicate,  fine  flavor  of  the  affair  is 
to  be  had  only  in  the  after-taste — in  gloating  over  the 
spot,  in  gazing  fixedly  at  the  houses  opposite,  in  hov- 
ering there  in  a  dream  more  exquisite  than  the  opium- 
eater's  ecstasy.  William  Pry  and  Violet  Seymour  were 
connoisseurs  in  casualties.  They  knew  how  to  extract 
full  enjoyment  from  every  incident. 

Presently  they  looked  at  each  other.  Violet  had  a 
brown  birthmark  on  her  neck  as  large  as  a  silver 
half-dollar.  William  fixed  his  eyes  upon  it.  William 
Pry  had  inordinately  bowed  legs.  Violet  allowed  her 

[69] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

gaze  to  linger  unswervingly  upon  them.  Face  to  face 
they  stood  thus  for  moments,  each  staring  at  the 
other.  Etiquette  would  not  allow  them  to  speak;  but 
in  the  Caoutchouc  City  it  is  permitted  to  gaze  with- 
out stint  at  the  trees  in  the  parks  and  at  the  physi- 
cal blemishes  of  a  fellow  creature. 

At  length  with  a  sigh  they  parted.  But  Cupid  had 
been  the  driver  of  the  brewery  wagon,  and  the  wheel 
that  broke  a  leg  united  two  fond  hearts. 

The  next  meeting  of  the  hero  and  heroine  was  in 
front  of  a  board  fence  near  Broadway.  The  day  had 
been  a  disappointing  one.  There  had  been  no  fights 
on  the  street,  children  had  kept  from  under  the  wheels 
of  the  street  cars,  cripples  and  fat  men  in  negligee 
shirts  were  scarce;  nobody  seemed  to  be  inclined  to 
slip  on  banana  peels  or  fall  down  with  heart  disease. 
Even  the  sport  from  Kokomo,  Ind.,  who  claims  to  be 
a  cousin  of  ex-Mayor  Low  and  scatters  nickels  from 
a  cab  window,  had  not  put  in  his  appearance.  There 
was  nothing  to  stare  at,  and  William  Pry  had  pre- 
monitions of  ennui. 

But  he  saw  a  large  crowd  scrambling  and  pushing 
excitedly  in  front  of  a  billboard.  Sprinting  for  it,  he 
knocked  down  an  old  woman  and  a  child  carrying  a 
bottle  of  milk,  and  fought  his  way  like  a  demon  into 
the  mass  of  spectators.  Already  in  the  inner  line 
stood  Violet  Seymour  with  one  sleeve  and  two  gold  fill- 
ings gone,  a  corset  steel  puncture  and  a  sprained 

[70] 


A  COMEDY  IN  RUBBER 

wrist,  but  happy.  She  was  looking  at  what  there  was 
to  see.  A  man  was  painting  upon  the  fence :  "  Eat 
Bricklets — They  Fill  Your  Face." 

Violet  blushed  when  she  saw  William  Pry.  William 
jabbed  a  lady  in  a  black  silk  raglan  in  the  ribs,  kicked 
a  boy  in  the  shin,  hit  an  old  gentleman  on  the  left  ear 
and  managed  to  crowd  nearer  to  Violet.  They  stood 
for  an  hour  looking  at  the  man  paint  the  letters. 
Then  William's  love  could  be  repressed  no  longer.  He 
touched  her  on  the  arm. 

"  Come  with  me,"  he  said.  "  I  know  where  there  is 
a  bootblack  without  an  Adam's  apple." 

She  looked  up  at  him  shyly,  yet  with  unmistak- 
able love  transfiguring  her  countenance. 

"  And  you  have  saved  it  for  me  ? "  she  asked, 
trembling  with  the  first  dim  ecstasy  of  a  woman  be- 
loved. 

Together  they  hurried  to  the  bootblack's  stand. 
An  hour  they  spent  there  gazing  at  the  malformed 
youth. 

A  window-cleaner  fell  from  the  fifth  story  to  the 
sidewalk  beside  them.  As  the  ambulance  came  clang- 
ing up  William  pressed  her  hand  joyously.  "Four 
ribs  at  least  and  a  compound  fracture,"  he  whispered, 
swiftly.  "  You  are  not  sorry  that  you  met  me,  are 
you,  dearest?" 

"  Me?  "  said  Violet,  returning  the  pressure.  "  Sure 
not.  I  could  stand  all  day  rubbering  with  you." 

[71] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

The  climax  of  the  romance  occurred  a  few  days 
later.  Perhaps  the  reader  will  remember  the  intense 
excitement  into  which  the  city  was  thrown  when  Eliza 
Jane,  a  colored  woman,  was  served  with  a  subpoena. 
The  Rubber  Tribe  encamped  on  the  spot.  With  his 
own  hands  William  Pry  placed  a  board  upon  two  beer 
kegs  in  the  street  opposite  Eliza  Jane's  residence. 
He  and  Violet  sat  there  for  three  days  and  nights. 
Then  it  occurred  to  a  detective  to  open  the  door  and 
serve  the  subpoena.  He  sent  for  a  kinetoscope  and 
did  so. 

Two  souls  with  such  congenial  tastes  could  not  long 
remain  apart.  As  a  policeman  drove  them  away  with 
his  night  stick  that  evening  they  plighted  their  troth. 
The  seeds  of  love  had  been  well  sown,  and  had  grown 
up,  hardy  and  vigorous,  into  a — let  us  call  it  a  rub- 
ber plant. 

The  wedding  of  William  Pry  and  Violet  Seymour 
was  set  for  June  10.  The  Big  Church  in  the  Middle 
of  the  Block  was  banked  high  with  flowers.  The 
populous  tribe  of  Rubberers  the  world  over  is  ram- 
pant over  weddings.  They  are  the  pessimists  of  the 
pews.  They  are  the  guyers  of  the  groom  and  the 
banterers  of  the  bride.  They  come  to  laugh  at  your 
marriage,  and  should  you  escape  from  Hymen's 
tower  on  the  back  of  death's  pale  steed  they  will 
come  to  the  funeral  and  sit  in  the  same  pew  and  cry 
over  your  luck.  Rubber  will  stretch. 

[72] 


A  COMEDY  IN  RUBBER 

The  church  was  lighted.  A  grosgrain  carpet  lay 
over  the  asphalt  to  the  edge  of  the  sidewalk.  Brides- 
maids were  patting  one  another's  sashes  awry  and 
speaking  of  the  Bride's  freckles.  Coachmen  tied 
white  ribbons  on  their  whips  and  bewailed  the  space 
of  time  between  drinks.  The  minister  was  musing  over 
his  possible  fee,  essaying  conjecture  whether  it  would 
suffice  to  purchase  a  new  broadcloth  suit  for  himself 
and  a  photograph  of  Laura  Jean  Libbey  for  his  wife. 
Yea,  Cupid  was  in  the  air. 

And  outside  the  church,  oh,  my  brothers,  surged 
and  heaved  the  rank  and  file  of  the  tribe  of  Rubberers. 
In  two  bodies  they  were,  with  the  grosgrain  carpet 
and  cops  with  clubs  between.  They  crowded  like 
cattle,  they  fought,  they  pressed  and  surged  and 
swayed  and  trampled  one  another  to  see  a  bit  of  a 
girl  in  a  white  veil  acquire  license  to  go  through  a 
man's  pockets  while  he  sleeps. 

But  the  hour  for  the  wedding  came  and  went,  and 
the  bride  and  bridegroom  came  not.  And  impatience 
gave  way  to  alarm  and  alarm  brought  about  search, 
and  they  were  not  found.  And  then  two  big  police- 
men took  a  hand  and  dragged  out  of  the  furious  mob 
of  onlookers  a  crushed  and  trampled  thing,  with  a 
wedding  ring  in  its  vest  pocket  and  a  shredded  and 
hysterical  woman  beating  her  way  to  the  carpet's 
edge,  ragged,  bruised  and  obstreperous. 

William  Pry  and  Violet  Seymour,  creatures  of 
[73] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

habit,  had  joined  in  the  seething  game  of  the  specta- 
tors, unable  to  resist  the  overwhelming  desire  to  gaze 
upon  themselves  entering,  as  bride  and  bridegroom5 
the  rose-decked  church. 
Rubber  will  out. 


ONE  THOUSAND  DOLLARS 

ONE  thousand  dollars,"  repeated  Lawyer  Tolman, 
solemnly  and  severely,  "  and  here  is  the  money." 

Young  Gillian  gave  a  decidedly  amused  laugh  as 
he  fingered  the  thin  package  of  new  fifty-dollar  notes. 

"  It's  such  a  confoundedly  awkward  amount,"  he 
explained,  genially,  to  the  lawyer.  "  If  it  had  been 
ten  thousand  a  fellow  might  wind  up  with  a  lot  of 
fireworks  and  do  himself  credit.  Even  fifty  dollars 
would  have  been  less  trouble." 

"  You  heard  the  reading  of  your  uncle's  will,"  con- 
tinued Lawyer  Tolman,  professionally  dry  in  his 
tones.  "  I  do  not  know  if  you  paid  much  attention 
to  its  details.  I  must  remind  you  of  one.  You  are  re- 
quired to  render  to  us  an  account  of  the  manner  of 
expenditure  of  this  $1,000  as  soon  as  you  have  dis- 
posed of  it.  The  will  stipulates  that.  I  trust  that  you 
will  so  far  comply  with  the  late  Mr.  Gillian's  wishes." 

"  You  may  depend  upon  it,"  said  the  young  man, 
politely,  "  in  spite  of  the  extra  expense  it  will  entail. 
I  may  have  to  engage  a  secretary.  I  was  never  good 
at  accounts." 

Gillian  went  to  his  club.  There  he  hunted  out  one 
whom  he  called  Old  Bryson. 

[75] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

Old  Bryson  was  calm  and  forty  and  sequestered. 
He  was  in  a  corner  reading  a  book,  and  when  he  saw 
Gillian  approaching  he  sighed,  laid  down  his  book 
and  took  off  his  glasses. 

"  Old  Bryson,  wake  up,"  said  Gillian.  "  I've  a 
funny  story  to  tell  you." 

"  I  wish  you  would  tell  it  to  some  one  in  the  billiard 
room,"  said  Old  Bryson.  "  You  know  how  I  hate  your 
stories." 

"  This  is  a  better  one  than  usual,"  said  Gillian, 
rolling  a  cigarette ;  "  and  I'm  going  to  tell  it  to  you. 
It's  too  sad  and  funny  to  go  with  the  rattling  of 
billiard  balls.  I've  just  come  from  my  late  uncle's 
firm  of  legal  corsairs.  He  leaves  me  an  even  thousand 
dollars.  Now,  what  can  a  man  possibly  do  with  a 
thousand  dollars  ?  " 

"  I  thought,"  said  Old  Bryson,  showing  as  much 
interest  as  a  bee  shows  in  a  vinegar  cruet,  "  that  the 
late  Septimus  Gillian  was  worth  something  like  half 
a  million." 

"  He  was,"  assented  Gillian,  joyously,  "  and  that's 
where  the  joke  comes  in.  He's  left  his  whole  cargo  of 
doubloons  to  a  microbe.  That  is,  part  of  it  goes  to 
the  man  who  invents  a  new  bacillus  and  the  rest  to  es- 
tablish a  hospital  for  doing  away  with  it  again.  There 
are  one  or  two  trifling  bequests  on  the  side.  The  but- 
ler and  the  housekeeper  get  a  seal  ring  and  $10  each. 
His  nephew  gets  $1,000." 

[76] 


ONE  THOUSAND  DOLLARS 

"  You've  always  had  plenty  of  money  to  spend," 
observed  Old  Bryson. 

"  Tons,"  said  Gillian.  "  Uncle  was  the  fairy  god- 
mother as  far  as  an  allowance  was  concerned." 

"  Any  other  heirs  ?  "  asked  Old  Bryson. 

"  None."  Gillian  frowned  at  his  cigarette  and 
kicked  the  upholstered  leather  of  a  divan  uneasily. 
"  There  is  a  Miss  Hayden,  a  ward  of  my  uncle,  who 
lived  in  his  house.  She's  a  quiet  thing — musical — the 
daughter  of  somebody  who  was  unlucky  enough  to 
be  his  friend.  I  forgot  to  say  that  she  was  in  on  the 
seal  ring  and  $10  joke,  too.  I  wish  I  had  been.  Then 
I  could  have  had  two  bottles  of  brut,  tipped  the 
waiter  with  the  ring  and  had  the  whole  business  off 
my  hands.  Don't  be  superior  and  insulting,  Old 
Bryson — tell  me  what  a  fellow  can  do  with  a  thou- 
sand dollars." 

Old  Bryson  rubbed  his  glasses  and  smiled.  And  when 
Old  Bryson  smiled,  Gillian  knew  that  he  intended  to 
be  more  offensive  than  ever. 

"  A  thousand  dollars,"  he  said,  "  means  much  or 
little.  One  man  may  buy  a  happy  home  with  it  and 
laugh  at  Rockefeller.  Another  could  send  his  wife 
South  with  it  and  save  her  life.  A  thousand  dollars 
would  buy  pure  milk  for  one  hundred  babies  during 
June,  July,  and  August  and  save  fifty  of  their  lives. 
You  could  count  upon  a  half  hour's  diversion  with  it 
at  faro  in  one  of  the  fortified  art  galleries.  It  would 

[77] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

furnish  an  education  to  an  ambitious  boy.  I  am  told 
that  a  genuine  Corot  was  secured  for  that  amount  in 
an  auction  room  yesterday.  You  could  move  to  a 
New  Hampshire  town  and  live  respectably  two 
years  on  it.  You  could  rent  Madison  Square  Garden 
for  one  evening  with  it,  and  lecture  your  audience,  if 
you  should  have  one,  on  the  precariousness  of  the  pro- 
fession of  heir  presumptive." 

"  People  might  like  you,  Old  Bryson,"  said  Gillian, 
always  unruffled,  "  if  you  wouldn't  moralize.  I  asked 
you  to  tell  me  what  I  could  do  with  a  thousand 
dollars." 

"  You?  "  said  Bryson,  with  a  gentle  laugh.  "  Why, 
Bobby  Gillian,  there's  only  one  logical  thing  you 
could  do.  You  can  go  buy  Miss  Lotta  Lauriere  a 
diamond  pendant  with  the  money,  and  then  take  your- 
self off  to  Idaho  and  inflict  your  presence  upon  a 
ranch.  I  advise  a  sheep  ranch,  as  I  have  a  particular 
dislike  for  sheep." 

"Thanks,"  said  Gillian,  rising,  "I  thought  I 
could  depend  upon  you,  Old  Bryson.  You've  hit  on 
the  very  scheme.  I  wanted  to  chuck  the  money  in  a 
lump,  for  I've  got  to  turn  in  an  account  for  it,  and 
I  hate  itemizing." 

Gillian  phoned  for  a  cab  and  said  to  the  driver: 
"  The  stage  entrance  of  the  Columbine  Theatre." 
Miss  Lotta  Lauriere  was  assisting  nature  with  a 
powder  puff,  almost  ready  for  her  call  at  a  crowded 

[78] 


ONE  THOUSAND  DOLLARS 

matinee,  when  her  dresser  mentioned  the  name  of  Mr. 
Gillian. 

"Let  it  in,"  said  Miss  Lauriere.  "  Now,  what  is  it, 
Bobby  ?  I'm  going  on  in  two  minutes." 

"  Rabbit-foot  your  right  ear  a  little,"  suggested 
Gillian,  critically.  "That's  better.  It  won't  take  two 
minutes  for  me.  What  do  you  say  to  a  little  thing  in 
the  pendant  line?  I  can  stand  three  ciphers  with  a 
figure  one  in  front  of  'em." 

"  Oh,  just  as  you  say,"  carolled  Miss  Lauriere. 
"  My  right  glove,  Adams.  Say,  Bobby,  did  you  see 
that  necklace  Delia  Stacey  had  on  the  other  night? 
Twenty-two  hundred  dollars  it  cost  at  Tiffany's. 
But,  of  course — pull  my  sash  a  little  to  the  left, 
Adams." 

"  Miss  Lauriere  for  the  opening  chorus ! "  cried 
the  call  boy  without. 

Gillian  strolled  out  to  where  his  cab  was  waiting. 

"  What  would  you  do  with  a  thousand  dollars  if 
you  had  it?  "  he  asked  the  driver. 

"  Open  a  s'loon,"  said  the  cabby,  promptly  and 
huskily.  "  I  know  a  place  I  could  take  money  in  with 
both  hands.  It's  a  four-story  brick  on  a  corner.  I've 
got  it  figured  out.  Second  story — Chinks  and  chop 
suey ;  third  floor — manicures  and  foreign  missions ; 
fourth  floor — poolroom.  If  you  was  thinking  of  put- 
ting up  the  cap — 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Gillian,  "I  merely  asked  from  cu- 
[79] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

riosity.  I  take  you  by  the  hour.  Drive  till  I  tell  you 
to  stop." 

Eight  blocks  down  Broadway  Gillian  poked  up 
the  trap  with  his  cane  and  got  out.  A  blind  man  sat 
upon  a  stool  on  the  sidewalk  selling  pencils.  Gillian 
went  out  and  stood  before  him. 

"  Excuse  me,"  he  said,  "  but  would  you  mind  tell- 
ing me  what  you  would  do  if  you  had  a  thousand 
dollars?" 

"  You  got  out  of  that  cab  that  just  drove  up, 
didn't  you  ?  "  asked  the  blind  man. 

"  I  did,"  said  Gillian. 

"  I  guess  you  are  all  right,"  said  the  pencil  dealer, 
"  to  ride  in  a  cab  by  daylight.  Take  a  look  at  that, 
if  you  like." 

He  drew  a  small  book  from  his  coat  pocket  and 
held  it  out.  Gillian  opened  it  and  saw  that  it  was  a 
bank  deposit  book.  It  showed  a  balance  of  $1,785  to 
the  blind  man's  credit. 

Gillian  returned  the  book  and  got  into  the  cab. 

"  I  forgot  something,"  he  said.  "  You  may  drive 
to    the   law    offices    of     Tolman    &    Sharp,    at  — 
Broadway." 

Lawyer  Tolman  looked  at  him  hostilely  and  in- 
quiringly through  his  gold-rimmed  glasses. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Gillian,  cheerfully, 
"  but  may  I  ask  you  a  question  ?  It  is  not  an  im- 
pertinent one,  I  hope.  Was  Miss  Hayden  left  any- 

[80] 


ONE  THOUSAND  DOLLARS 

thing  by  my  uncle's  will  besides  the  ring  and  the 
$10?" 

"  Nothing,"  said  Mr.  Tolman. 

"  I  thank  you  very  much,  sir,"  said  Gillian,  and 
out  he  went  to  his  cab.  He  gave  the  driver  the  address 
of  his  late  uncle's  home. 

Miss  Hayden  was  writing  letters  in  the  library. 
She  was  small  and  slender  and  clothed  in  black. 
But  you  would  have  noticed  her  eyes.  Gillian 
drifted  in  with  his  air  of  regarding  the  world  as 
inconsequent. 

"  I've  just  come  from  old  Tolman's,"  he  explained. 
"  They've  been  going  over  the  papers  down  there. 
They  found  a  " — Gillian  searched  his  memory  for  a 
legal  term — "  they  found  an  amendment  or  a  post- 
script or  something  to  the  will.  It  seemed  that  the  old 
boy  loosened  up  a  little  on  second  thoughts  and  willed 
you  a  thousand  dollars.  I  was  driving  up  this  way  and 
Tolman  asked  me  to  bring  you  the  money.  Here  it  is. 
You'd  better  count  it  to  see  if  it's  right."  Gillian  laid 
the  money  beside  her  hand  on  the  desk. 

Miss  Hayden  turned  white.  "  Oh ! "  she  said,  and 
again  "  Oh !  " 

Gillian  half  turned  and  looked  out  the  window. 

"  I  suppose,  of  course,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice, 
*4  that  you  know  I  love  you." 

"  T  am  sorry,"  said  Miss  Hayden,  taking  up  her 
money. 

[81] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

"There  is  no  use?"  asked  Gillian,  almost  light- 
heartedly. 

"  I  am  sorry,"  she  said  again. 

"  May  I  write  a  note?  "  asked  Gillian,  with  a  smile. 
He  seated  himself  at  the  big  library  table.  She  sup- 
plied him  with  paper  and  pen,  and  then  went  back  to 
her  secretaire. 

Gillian  made  out  his  account  of  his  expenditure  of 
the  thousand  dollars  in  these  words : 

"  Paid  by  the  black  sheep,  Robert  Gillian,  $1,000  on 
account  of  the  eternal  happiness,  owed  by  Heaven  to 
the  best  and  dearest  woman  on  earth." 

Gillian  slipped  his  writing  into  an  envelope,  bowed 
and  went  his  way. 

His  cab  stopped  again  at  the  offices  of  Tolman  & 
Sharp. 

"  I  have  expended  the  thousand  dollars,"  he  said, 
cheerily,  to  Tolman  of  the  gold  glasses,  "  and  I  have 
come  to  render  account  of  it,  as  I  agreed.  There  is 
quite  a  feeling  of  summer  in  the  air — do  you  not 
think  so,  Mr.  Tolman  ?  "  He  tossed  a  white  envelope 
on  the  lawyer's  table.  "  You  will  find  there  a  memoran- 
dum, sir,  of  the  modus  operandi  of  the  vanishing  of 
the  dollars." 

Without  touching  the  envelope,  Mr.  Tolman  went 
to  a  door  and  called  his  partner,  Sharp.  Together 
they  explored  the  caverns  of  an  immense  safe.  Forth 
they  dragged  as  trophy  of  their  search  a  big  envelope 

[82] 


ONE  THOUSAND  DOLLARS 

sealed  with  wax.  This  they  forcibly  invaded,  and 
wagged  their  venerable  heads  together  over  its  con- 
tents. Then  Tolman  became  spokesman. 

"  Mr.  Gillian,"  he  said,  formally,  "  there  was  a 
codicil  to  your  uncle's  will.  It  was  intrusted  to  us  pri- 
vately, with  instructions  that  it  be  not  opened  until 
you  had  furnished  us  with  a  full  account  of  your 
handling  of  the  $1,000  bequest  in  the  will.  As  you 
have  fulfilled  the  conditions,  my  partner  and  I  have 
read  the  codicil.  I  do  not  wish  to  encumber  your  under- 
standing with  its  legal  phraseology,  but  I  will  ac- 
quaint you  with  the  spirit  of  its  contents. 

"  In  the  event  that  your  disposition  of  the 
$1,000  demonstrates  that  you  possess  any  of 
the  qualifications  that  deserve  reward,  much 
benefit  will  accrue  to  you.  Mr.  Sharp  and  I  are 
named  as  the  judges,  and  I  assure  you  that  we  will 
do  our  duty  strictly  according  to  justice — with  liber- 
ality. We  are  not  at  all  unfavorably  disposed  toward 
you,  Mr.  Gillian.  But  let  us  return  to  the  letter  of  the 
codicil.  If  your  disposal  of  the  money  in  question  has 
been  prudent,  wise,  or  unselfish,  it  is  in  our  power  to 
hand  you  over  bonds  to  the  value  of  $50,000,  which 
have  been  placed  in  our  hands  for  that  purpose.  But 
if — as  our  client,  the  late  Mr.  Gillian,  explicitly  pro- 
vides— you  have  used  this  money  as  you  have  used 
money  in  the  past — I  quote  the  late  Mr.  Gillian — in 
reprehensible  dissipation  among  disreputable  asso- 

[83] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

ciates — the  $50,000  is  to  be  paid  to  Miriam  Hayden, 
ward  of  the  late  Mr.  Gillian,  without  delay.  Now,  Mr. 
Gillian,  Mr.  Sharp  and  I  will  examine  your  account  in 
regard  to  the  $1,000.  You  submit  it  in  writing,  I  be- 
lieve. I  hope  you  will  repose  confidence  in  our 
decision." 

Mr.  Tolman  reached  for  the  envelope.  Gillian  was 
a  little  the  quicker  in  taking  it  up.  He  tore  the  account 
and  its  cover  leisurely  into  strips  and  dropped  them 
into  his  pocket. 

"  It's  all  right,"  he  said,  smilingly.  "  There  isn't  a 
bit  of  need  to  bother  you  with  this.  I  don't  suppose 
you'd  understand  these  itemized  bets,  anyway.  I  lost 
the  thousand  dollars  on  the  races.  Good-day  to  you, 
gentlemen." 

Tolman  &  Sharp  shook  their  heads  mournfully  at 
each  other  when  Gillian  left,  for  they  heard  him 
whistling  gayly  in  the  hallway  as  he  waited  for  the 
elevator. 


[84] 


THE  DEFEAT  OF  THE  CITY 

ROBERT  WALMSLEY'S  descent  upon  the  city 

resulted  in  a  Kilkenny  struggle.  He  came  out  of  the 
fight  victor  by  a  fortune  and  a  reputation.  On  the 
other  hand,  he  was  swallowed  up  by  the  city.  The  city 
gave  him  what  he  demanded  and  then  branded  him 
with  its  brand.  It  remodelled,  cut,  trimmed  and 
stamped  him  to  the  pattern  it  approves.  It  opened  its 
social  gates  to  him  and  shut  him  in  on  a  close-cropped, 
formal  lawn  with  the  select  herd  of  ruminants.  In 
dress,  habits,  manners,  provincialism,  routine  and 
narrowness  he  acquired  that  charming  insolence,  that 
irritating  completeness,  that  sophisticated  crassness, 
that  overbalanced  poise  that  makes  the  Manhattan 
gentleman  so  delightfully  small  in  his  greatness. 

One  of  the  up-state  rural  counties  pointed  with 
pride  to  the  successful  young  metropolitan  lawyer  as 
a  product  of  its  soil.  Six  years  earlier  this  county  had 
removed  the  wheat  straw  from  between  its  huckle- 
berry-stained teeth  and  emitted  a  derisive  and  bucolic 
laugh  as  old  man  Walmsley's  freckle-faced  "  Bob  " 
abandoned  the  certain  three-per-diem  meals  of  the  one- 
horse  farm  for  the  discontinuous  quick  lunch  counters 
of  the  three-ringed  metropolis.  At  the  end  of  the  six 

[85] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

years  no  murder  trial,  coaching  party,  automobile  ac- 
cident or  cotillion  was  complete  in  which  the  name  of 
Robert  Walmsley  did  not  figure.  Tailors  waylaid  him 
in  the  street  to  get  a  new  wrinkle  from  the  cut  of  his 
unwrinkled  trousers.  Hyphenated  fellows  in  the  clubs 
and  members  of  the  oldest,  subpoenaed  families  were 
glad  to  clap  him  on  the  back  and  allow  him  three 
letters  of  his  name. 

But  the  Matterhorn  of  Robert  Walmsley's  success 
was  not  scaled  until  he  married  Alicia  Van  Der  Pool. 
I  cite  the  Matterhorn,  for  just  so  high  and  cool  and 
white  and  inaccessible  was  this  daughter  of  the  old 
burghers.  The  social  Alps  that  ranged  about  her — 
over  whose  bleak  passes  a  thousand  climbers  struggled 
— reached  only  to  her  knees.  She  towered  in  her  own 
atmosphere,  serene,  chaste,  prideful,  wading  in  no 
fountains,  dining  no  monkeys,  breeding  no  dogs  for 
bench  shows.  She  was  a  Van  Der  Pool.  Fountains  were 
made  to  play  for  her;  monkeys  were  made  for  other 
people's  ancestors ;  dogs,  she  understood,  were  created 
to  be  companions  of  blind  persons  and  objectionable 
characters  who  smoked  pipes. 

This  was  the  Matterhorn  that  Robert  Walmsley 
accomplished.  If  he  found,  with  the  good  poet  with  the 
game  foot  and  artificially  curled  hair,  that  he  who 
ascends  to  mountain  tops  will  find  the  loftiest  peaks 
most  wrapped  in  clouds  and  snow,  he  concealed  his 
chilblains  beneath  a  brave  and  smiling  exterior.  He 

[86] 


THE  DEFEAT  OF  THE  CITY 

was  a  lucky  man  and  knew  it,  even  though  he  were 
imitating  the  Spartan  boy  with  an  ice-cream  freezer 
beneath  his  doublet  frappeeing  the  region  of  his 
heart. 

After  a  brief  wedding  tour  abroad,  the  couple  re- 
turned to  create  a  decided  ripple  in  the  calm  cistern 
(so  placid  and  cool  and  sunless  it  is)  of  the  best  so- 
ciety. They  entertained  at  their  red  brick  mausoleum 
of  ancient  greatness  in  an  old  square  that  is  a  ceme- 
tery of  crumbled  glory.  And  Robert  Walmsley  was 
proud  of  his  wife;  although  while  one  of  his  hands 
shook  his  guests'  the  other  held  tightly  to  his  alpen- 
stock and  thermometer. 

One  day  Alicia  found  a  letter  written  to  Robert  by 
his  mother.  It  was  an  unerudite  letter,  full  of  crops 
and  motherly  love  and  farm  notes.  It  chronicled  the 
health  of  the  pig  and  the  recent  red  calf,  and  asked 
concerning  Robert's  in  return.  It  was  a  letter  direct 
from  the  soil,  straight  from  home,  full  of  biographies 
of  bees,  tales  of  turnips,  paeans  of  new-laid  eggs, 
neglected  parents  and  the  slump  in  dried  apples. 

"  Why  have  I  not  been  shown  your  mother's  let- 
ters ?  "  asked  Alicia.  There  was  always  something  in 
her  voice  that  made  you  think  of  lorgnettes,  of  ac- 
counts at  Tiffany's,  of  sledges  smoothly  gliding  on 
the  trail  from  Dawson  to  Forty  Mile,  of  the  tinkling 
of  pendant  prisms  on  your  grandmothers'  chandeliers, 
of  snow  lying  on  a  convent  roof ;  of  a  police  sergeant 

[87] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

refusing  bail.  "Your  mother,"  continued  Alicia,  "  in- 
vites us  to  make  a  visit  to  the  farm.  I  have  never 
seen  a  farm.  We  will  go  there  for  a  week  or  two, 
Robert." 

"  We  will,"  said  Robert,  with  the  grand  air  of  an 
associate  Supreme  Justice  concurring  in  an  opinion. 
"  I  did  not  lay  the  invitation  before  you  because  I 
thought  you  would  not  care  to  go.  I  am  much  pleased 
at  your  decision." 

"  I  will  write  to  her  myself,"  answered  Alicia,  with 
a  faint  foreshadowing  of  enthusiasm.  "  Felice  shall 
pack  my  trunks  at  once.  Seven,  I  think,  will  be 
enough.  I  do  not  suppose  that  your  mother  entertains 
a  great  deal.  Does  she  give  many  house  parties  ?  " 

Robert  arose,  and  as  attorney  for  rural  places  filed 
a  demurrer  against  six  of  the  seven  trunks.  He  en- 
deavored to  define,  picture,  elucidate,  set  forth  and 
describe  a  farm.  His  own  words  sounded  strange  in  his 
ears.  He  had  not  realized  how  thoroughly  urbsidized 
he  had  become. 

A  week  passed  and  found  them  landed  at  the  little 
country  station  five  hours  out  from  the  city.  A  grin- 
ning, stentorian,  sarcastic  youth  driving  a  mule  to  a 
spring  wagon  hailed  Robert  savagely. 

"  Hallo,  Mr.  Walmsley.  Found  your  way  back  at 
last,  have  you?  Sorry  I  couldn't  bring  in  the  automo- 
bile for  you,  but  dad's  bull-tonguing  the  ten-acre 
clover  patch  with  it  to-day.  Guess  you'll  excuse  my 

[88] 


THE  DEFEAT  OF  THE  CITY 

not  wearing  a  dress  suit  over  to  meet  you — it  ain't  six 
o'clock  yet,  you  know." 

"  I'm  glad  to  see  you,  Tom,"  said  Robert,  grasping 
his  brother's  hand.  "  Yes,  I've  found  my  way  at  last. 
You've  a  right  to  say  '  at  last.'  It's  been  over  two 
years  since  the  last  time.  But  it  will  be  oftener  after 
this,  my  boy." 

Alicia,  cool  in  the  summer  heat  as  an  Arctic  wraith, 
white  as  a  Norse  snow  maiden  in  her  flimsy  muslin  and 
fluttering  lace  parasol,  came  round  the  corner  of  the 
station;  and  Tom  was  stripped  of  his  assurance.  He 
became  chiefly  eyesight  clothed  in  blue  jeans,  and  on 
the  homeward  drive  to  the  mule  alone  did  he  confide 
in  language  the  inwardness  of  his  thoughts. 

They  drove  homeward.  The  low  sun  dropped  a 
spendthrift  flood  of  gold  upon  the  fortunate  fields  of 
wheat.  The  cities  were  far  away.  The  road  lay  curling 
around  wood  and  dale  and  hill  like  a  ribbon  lost  from 
the  robe  of  careless  summer.  The  wind  followed  like  a 
whinnying  colt  in  the  track  of  Phoebus's  steeds. 

By  and  by  the  farmhouse  peeped  gray  out  of  its 
faithful  grove ;  they  saw  the  long  lane  with  its  convoy 
of  walnut  trees  running  from  the  road  to  the  house; 
they  smelled  the  wild  rose  and  the  breath  of  cool,  damp 
willows  in  the  creek's  bed.  And  then  in  unison  all  the 
voices  of  the  soil  began  a  chant  addressed  to  the  soul 
of  Robert  Walmsley.  Out  of  the  tilted  aisles  of  the 
dim  wood  they  came  hollowly ;  they  chirped  and  buzzed 

[89] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

from  the  parched  grass ;  they  trilled  from  the  ripples 
of  the  creek  ford ;  they  floated  up  in  clear  Pan's  pipe 
notes  from  the  dimming  meadows ;  the  whippoorwills 
joined  in  as  they  pursued  midges  in  the  upper  air; 
slow-going  cow-bells  struck  out  a  homely  accompani- 
ment— and  this  was  what  each  one  said:  "You've 
found  your  way  back  at  last,  have  you  ?  " 

The  old  voices  of  the  soil  spoke  to  him.  Leaf  and 
bud  and  blossom  conversed  with  him  in  the  old  vocabu- 
lary of  his  careless  youth — the  inanimate  things,  the 
familiar  stones  and  rails,  the  gates  and  furrows  and 
roofs  and  turns  of  the  road  had  an  eloquence,  too,  and 
a  power  in  the  transformation.  The  country  had 
smiled  and  he  had  felt  the  breath  of  it,  and  his  heart 
was  drawn  as  if  in  a  moment  back  to  his  old  love.  The 
city  was  far  away. 

This  rural  atavism,  then,  seized  Robert  Walmsley 
and  possessed  him.  A  queer  thing  he  noticed  in  con- 
nection with  it  was  that  Alicia,  sitting  at  his  side,  sud- 
denly seemed  to  him  a  stranger.  She  did  not  belong  to 
this  recurrent  phase.  Never  before  had  she  seemed  so 
remote,  so  colorless  and  high — so  intangible  and  un- 
real. And  yet  he  had  never  admired  her  more  than 
when  she  sat  there  by  him  in  the  rickety  spring 
wagon,  chiming  no  more  with  his  mood  and  with  her 
environment  than  the  Matterhorn  chimes  with  a 
peasant's  cabbage  garden. 

That  night  when  the  greetings  and  the  supper  were 
[90] 


THE  DEFEAT  OF  THE  CITY 

over,  the  entire  family,  including  Buff,  the  yellow  dog, 
bestrewed  itself  upon  the  front  porch.  Alicia,  not 
haughty  but  silent,  sat  in  the  shadow  dressed  in  an 
exquisite  pale-gray  tea  gown.  Robert's  mother  dis- 
coursed to  her  happily  concerning  marmalade  and 
lumbago.  Tom  sat  on  the  top  step ;  Sisters  Millie  and 
Pam  on  the  lowest  step  to  catch  the  lightning  bugs. 
Mother  had  the  willow  rocker.  Father  sat  in  the  big 
armchair  with  one  of  its  arms  gone.  Buff  sprawled  in 
the  middle  of  the  porch  in  everybody's  way.  The  twi- 
light pixies  and  pucks  stole  forth  unseen  and  plunged 
other  poignant  shafts  of  memory  into  the  heart  of 
Robert.  A  rural  madness  entered  his  soul.  The  city 
was  far  away. 

Father  sat  without  his  pipe,  writhing  in  his  heavy 
boots,  a  sacrifice  to  rigid  courtesy.  Robert  shouted: 
"  No,  you  don't ! "  He  fetched  the  pipe  and  lit  it ;  he 
seized  the  old  gentleman's  boots  and  tore  them  off.  The 
last  one  slipped  suddenly,  and  Mr.  Robert  Walmsley, 
of  Washington  Square,  tumbled  off  the  porch  back- 
ward with  Buff  on  top  of  him,  howling  fearfully.  Tom 
laughed  sarcastically. 

Robert  tore  off  his  coat  and  vest  and  hurled  them 
into  a  lilac  bush. 

"  Come  out  here,  you  landlubber,"  he  cried  to  Tom, 
"  and  I'll  put  grass  seed  on  your  back.  I  think  you 
called  me  a  '  dude '  a  while  ago.  Come  along  and  cut 
your  capers-" 

[91] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

Tom  understood  the  invitation  and  accepted  it  with 
delight.  Three  times  they  wrestled  on  the  grass,  "  side 
holds,"  even  as  the  giants  of  the  mat.  And  twice  was 
Tom  forced  to  bite  grass  at  the  hands  of  the  dis- 
tinguished lawyer.  Dishevelled,  panting,  each  still 
boasting  of  his  own  prowess,  they  stumbled  back  to 
the  porch.  Millie  cast  a  pert  reflection  upon  the 
qualities  of  a  city  brother.  In  an  instant  Robert  had 
secured  a  horrid  katydid  in  his  fingers  and  bore  down 
upon  her.  Screaming  -wildly,  she  fled  up  the  lane,  pur- 
sued by  the  avenging  glass  of  form.  A  quarter  of  a 
mile  and  they  returned,  she  full  of  apology  to  the 
victorious  "  dude."  The  rustic  mania  possessed  him 
unabatedly. 

"  I  can  do  up  a  cowpenful  of  you  slow  hayseeds," 
he  proclaimed,  vaingloriously.  "  Bring  on  your  bull- 
dogs, your  hired  men  and  your  log-rollers." 

He  turned  handsprings  on  the  grass  that  prodded 
Tom  to  envious  sarcasm.  And  then,  with  a  whoop,  he 
clattered  to  the  rear  and  brought  back  Uncle  Ike,  a 
battered  colored  retainer  of  the  family,  with  his 
banjo,  and  strewed  sand  on  the  porch  and  danced 
"  Chicken  in  the  Bread  Tray  "  and  did  buck-and- 
wing  wonders  for  half  an  hour  longer.  Incredibly  wild 
and  boisterous  things  he  did.  He  sang,  he  told  stories 
that  set  all  but  one  shrieking,  he  played  the  yokel,  the 
humorous  clodhopper;  he  was  mad,  mad  with  the 
revival  of  the  old  life  in  his  blood. 

[92] 


THE  DEFEAT  OF  THE  CITY 

He  became  so  extravagant  that  once  his  mother 
sought  gently  to  reprove  him.  Then  Alicia  moved  as 
though  she  were  about  to  speak,  but  she  did  not. 
Through  it  all  she  sat  immovable,  a  slim,  white  spirit 
in  the  dusk  that  no  man  might  question  or  read. 

By  and  by  she  asked  permission  to  ascend  to  her 
room,  saying  that  she  was  tired.  On  her  way  she 
passed  Robert.  He  was  standing  in  the  door,  the  figure 
of  vulgar  comedy,  with  ruffled  hair,  reddened  face 
and  unpardonable  confusion  of  attire — no  trace  there 
of  the  immaculate  Robert  Walmsley,  the  courted  club- 
man and  ornament  of  select  circles.  He  was  doing  a 
conjuring  trick  with  some  household  utensils,  and  the 
family,  now  won  over  to  him  without  exception,  was 
beholding  him  with  worshipful  admiration. 

As  Alicia  passed  in  Robert  started  suddenly.  He 
had  forgotten  for  the  moment  that  she  was  present. 
Without  a  glance  at  him  she  went  on  upstairs. 

After  that  the  fun  grew  quiet.  An  hour  passed  in 
talk,  and  then  Robert  went  up  himself. 

She  was  standing  by  the  window  when  he  entered 
their  room.  She  was  still  clothed  as  when  they  were  on 
the  porch.  Outside  and  crowding  against  the  window 
was  a  giant  apple  tree,  full  blossomed. 

Robert  sighed  and  went  near  the  window.  He  was 
ready  to  meet  his  fate.  A  confessed  vulgarian,  he  fore- 
saw the  verdict  of  justice  in  the  shape  of  that  still, 
whiteclad  form.  He  knew  the  rigid  lines  that  a  Van 

[93] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

Der  Pool  would  draw.  He  was  a  peasant  gambolling 
indecorously  in  the  valley,  and  the  pure,  cold,  white, 
unthawed  summit  of  the  Matterhorn  could  not  but 
frown  on  him.  He  had  been  unmasked  by  his  own 
actions.  All  the  polish,  the  poise,  the  form  that  the 
city  had  given  him  had  fallen  from  him  like  an  ill- 
fitting  mantle  at  the  first  breath  of  a  country  breeze. 
Dully  he  awaited  the  approaching  condemnation. 

"  Robert,"  said  the  calm,  cool  voice  of  his  judge, 
"  I  thought  I  married  a  gentleman." 

Yes,  it  was  coming.  And  yet,  in  the  face  of  it, 
Robert  Walmsley  was  eagerly  regarding  a  certain 
branch  of  the  apple  tree  upon  which  he  used  to  climb 
out  of  that  very  window.  He  believed  he  could  do  it 
now.  He  wondered  how  many  blossoms  there  were  on 
the  tree — ten  millions?  But  here  was  some  one  speak- 
ing again : 

"  I  thought  I  married  a  gentleman,"  the  voice 
went  on,  "  but " 

Why  had  she  come  and  was  standing  so  close  by  his 
side? 

"  But  I  find  that  I  have  married  " — was  this  Alicia 
talking? — "  something  better — a  man — Bob,  dear, 
kiss  me,  won't  you?  " 

The  city  was  far  away. 


[94] 


THE  SHOCKS  OF  DOOM 

THERE  is  an  aristocracy  of  the  public  parks  and 
even  of  the  vagabonds  who  use  them  for  their  private 
apartments.  Vallance  felt  rather  than  knew  this, 
but  when  he  stepped  down  out  of  his  world  into 
chaos  his  feet  brought  him  directly  to  Madison 
Square. 

Raw  and  astringent  as  a  schoolgirl — of  the  old 
order — young  May  breathed  austerely  among  the 
budding  trees.  Vallance  buttoned  his  coat,  lighted  his 
last  cigarette  and  took  his  seat  upon  a  bench.  For 
three  minutes  he  mildly  regretted  the  last  hundred  of 
his  last  thousand  that  it  had  cost  him  when  the 
bicycle  cop  put  an  end  to  his  last  automobile  ride. 
Then  he  felt  in  every  pocket  and  found  not  a 
single  penny.  He  had  given  up  his  apartment 
that  morning.  His  furniture  had  gone  toward  certain 
debts.  His  clothes,  save  what  were  upon  him,  had 
descended  to  his  man-servant  for  back  wages.  As  he 
sat  there  was  not  in  the  whole  city  for  him  a  bed  or  a 
broiled  lobster  or  a  street-car  fare  or  a  carnation  for 
his  buttonhole  unless  he  should  obtain  them  by  spong- 
ing on  his  friends  or  by  false  pretenses.  Therefore  he 
had  chosen  the  park. 

[95] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

And  all  this  was  because  an  uncle  had  disinherited 
him,  and  cut  down  his  allowance  from  liberality  to 
nothing.  And  all  that  was  because  his  nephew  had  dis- 
obeyed him  concerning  a  certain  girl,  who  comes  not 
into  this  story — therefore,  all  readers  who  brush  their 
hair  toward  its  roots  may  be  warned  to  read  no 
further.  There  was  another  nephew,  of  a  different 
branch,  who  had  once  been  the  prospective  heir  and 
favorite.  Being  without  grace  or  hope,  he  had  long 
ago  disappeared  in  the  mire.  Now  dragnets  were  out 
for  him;  he  was  to  be  rehabilitated  and  restored. 
And  so  Vallance  fell  grandly  as  Lucifer  to  the 
lowest  pit,  joining  the  tattered  ghosts  in  the  little 
park. 

Sitting  there,  he  leaned  far  back  on  the  hard  bench 
and  laughed  a  jet  of  cigarette  smoke  up  to  the  lowest 
tree  branches.  The  sudden  severing  of  all  his  life'^s  ties 
had  brought  him  a  free,  thrilling,  almost  joyous  ela- 
tion. He  felt  precisely  the  sensation  of  the  aeronaut 
when  he  cuts  loose  his  parachute  and  lets  his  balloon 
drift  away. 

The  hour  was  nearly  ten.  Not  many  loungers  were 
on  the  benches.  The  park-dweller,  though  a  stubborn 
fighter  against  autumnal  coolness,  is  slow  to  attack 
the  advance  line  of  spring's  chilly  cohorts. 

Then  arose  one  from  a  seat  near  the  leaping  foun- 
tain, and  came  and  sat  himself  at  Vallance's  side.  He 
was  either  young  or  old;  cheap  lodging-houses  had 

[96] 


THE  SHOCKS  OF  DOOM 

flavored  him  mustily;  razors  and  combs  had  passed 
him  by ;  in  him  drink  had  been  bottled  and  sealed  in 
the  devil's  bond.  He  begged  a  match,  which  is  the  form 
of  introduction  among  park  benchers,  and  then  he 
began  to  talk. 

"  You're  not  one  of  the  regulars,"  he  said  to  Val- 
lance.  "  I  know  tailored  clothes  when  I  see  'em.  You 
just  stopped  for  a  moment  on  your  way  through  the 
park.  Don't  mind  my  talking  to  you  for  a  while  ?  I've 
got  to  be  with  somebody.  I'm  afraid — I'm  afraid.  I've 
told  two  or  three  of  those  bummers  over  there  about  it. 
They  think  I'm  crazy.  Say — let  me  tell  you — all  I've 
had  to  eat  to-day  was  a  couple  of  bretzels  and  an 
apple.  To-morrow  I'll  stand  in  line  to  inherit  three 
millions ;  and  that  restaurant  you  see  over  there  with 
the  autos  around  it  will  be  too  cheap  for  me  to  eat  in. 
Don't  believe  it,  do  you  ?  " 

"Without  the  slightest  trouble,"  said  Vallance, 
with  a  laugh.  "  I  lunched  there  yesterday.  To-night  I 
couldn't  buy  a  five-cent  cup  of  coffee." 

"  You  don't  look  like  one  of  us.  Well,  I  guess  those 
things  happen.  I  used  to  be  a  high-flyer  myself — some 
years  ago.  What  knocked  you  out  of  the  game  ?  " 

"  I — oh,  I  lost  my  job,"  said  Vallance. 

"  It's  undiluted  Hades,  this  city,"  went  on  the 
other.  "  One  day  you're  eating  from  china ;  the  next 
you  are  eating  in  China — a  chop-suey  joint.  I've  had 
more  than  my  share  of  hard  luck.  For  five  years  I've 

[97] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

been  little  better  than  a  panhandler.  I  was  raised  up 
to  live  expensively  and  do  nothing.  Say — I  don't  mind 
telling  you — I've  got  to  talk  to  somebody,  you  see, 
because  I'm  afraid — I'm  afraid.  My  name's  Ide.  You 
wouldn't  think  that  old  Paulding,  one  of  the  million- 
aires on  Riverside  Drive,  was  my  uncle,  would  you? 
Well,  he  is.  I  lived  in  his  house  once,  and  had  all  the 
money  I  wanted.  Say,  haven't  you  got  the  price  of  a 
couple  of  drinks  about  you — er — what's  your 


name " 


"  Dawson,"  said  Vallance.  "  No ;  I'm  sorry  to  say 
that  I'm  all  in,  financially." 

"  I've  been  living  for  a  week  in  a  coal  cellar  on 
Division  Street,"  went  on  Ide,  "  with  a  crook  they 
called  '  Blinky  '  Morris.  I  didn't  have  anywhere  else  to 
go.  While  I  was  out  to-day  a  chap  with  some  papers 
in  his  pocket  was  there,  asking  for  me.  I  didn't  know 
but  what  he  was  a  fly  cop,  so  I  didn't  go  around  again 
till  after  dark.  There  was  a  letter  there  he  had  left 
for  me.  Say — Dawson,  it  was  from  a  big  downtown 
lawyer,  Mead.  I've  seen  his  sign  on  Ann  Street.  Paul- 
ding  wants  me  to  play  the  prodigal  nephew — wants 
me  to  come  back  and  be  his  heir  again  and  blow  in  his 
money.  I'm  to  call  at  the  lawyer's  office  at  ten  to-mor- 
row and  step  into  my  old  shoes  again — heir  to  three 
million,  Dawson,  and  $10,000  a  year  pocket  money. 
And— I'm  afraid— I'm  afraid." 

The  vagrant  leaped  to  his  feet  and  raised  both 
[98] 


THE  SHOCKS  OF  DOOM 

trembling  arms  above  his  head.  He  caught  his  breath 
and  moaned  hysterically. 

Vallance  seized  his  arm  and  forced  him  back  to  the 
bench. 

"  Be  quiet !  "  he  commanded,  with  something  like 
disgust  in  his  tones.  "  One  would  think  you  had  lost  a 
fortune,  instead  of  being  about  to  acquire  one.  Of 
what  are  you  afraid?  " 

Ide  cowered  and  shivered  on  the  bench.  He  clung  to 
Vallance's  sleeve,  and  even  in  the  dim  glow  of  the 
Broadway  lights  the  latest  disinherited  one  could  see 
drops  on  the  other's  brow  wrung  out  by  some  strange 
terror. 

"  Why,  I'm  afraid  something  will  happen  to  me  be- 
fore morning.  I  don't  know  what — something  to  keep 
me  from  coming  into  that  money.  I'm  afraid  a  tree 
will  fall  on  me — I'm  afraid  a  cab  will  run  over  me,  or 
a  stone  drop  on  me  from  a  housetop,  or  something.  I 
never  was  afraid  before.  I've  sat  in  this  park  a  hun- 
dred nights  as  calm  as  a  graven  image  without  know- 
ing where  my  breakfast  was  to  come  from.  But  now 
it's  different.  I  love  money,  Dawson — I'm  happy  as  a 
god  when  it's  trickling  through  my  fingers,  and  people 
are  bowing  to  me,  with  the  music  and  the  flowers  and 
fine  clothes  all  around.  As  long  as  I  knew  I  was  out  of 
the  game  I  didn't  mind.  I  was  even  happy  sitting  here 
ragged  and  hungry,  listening  to  the  fountain  jump 
and  watching  the  carriages  go  up  the  avenue.  But  it's 

[99] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

in  reach  of  my  hand  again  now — almost — and  I  can't 
stand  it  to  wait  twelve  hours,  Dawson — I  can't  stand 
it.  There  are  fifty  things  that  could  happen  to  me — 
I  could  go  blind — I  might  be  attacked  with  heart 
disease — the  world  might  come  to  an  end  before  I 
could " 

Ide  sprang  to  his  feet  again,  with  a  shriek.  People 
stirred  on  the  benches  and  began  to  look.  Vallance 
took  his  arm. 

"  Come  and  walk,"  he  said,  soothingly.  "  And  try 
to  calm  yourself.  There  is  no  need  to  become  excited 
or  alarmed.  Nothing  is  going  to  happen  to  you.  One 
night  is  like  another." 

"  That's  right,"  said  Ide.  "  Stay  with  me,  Dawson 
— that's  a  good  fellow.  Walk  around  with  me  awhile. 
I  never  went  to  pieces  like  this  before,  and  I've  had  a 
good  many  hard  knocks.  Do  you  think  you  could 
hustle  something  in  the  way  of  a  little  lunch,  old 
man?  I'm  afraid  my  nerve's  too  far  gone  to  try  any 
panhandling." 

Vallance  led  his  companion  up  almost  deserted 
Fifth  Avenue,  and  then  westward  along  the  Thirties 
toward  Broadway.  "  Wait  here  a  few  minutes,"  he 
said,  leaving  Ide  in  a  quiet  and  shadowed  spot.  He 
entered  a  familiar  hotel,  and  strolled  toward  the  bar 
quite  in  his  old  assured  way. 

"  There's  a  poor  devil  outside,  Jimmy,"  he  said  to 
the  bartender,  "  who  says  he's  hungry  and  looks  it. 
[100] 


THE  SHOCKS  OF  DOOM 

You  know  what  they  do  when  you  give  them  money. 
Fix  up  a  sandwich  or  two  for  him ;  and  I'll  see  that 
he  doesn't  throw  it  away." 

"  Certainly,  Mr.  Vallance,"  said  the  bartender. 
"  They  ain't  all  fakes.  Don't  like  to  see  anybody  go 
hungry." 

He  folded  a  liberal  supply  of  the  free  lunch  into  a 
napkin.  Vallance  went  with  it  and  joined  his  com- 
panion. Ide  pounced  upon  the  food  ravenously.  "  I 
haven't  had  any  free  lunch  as  good  as  this  in  a  year," 
he  said.  "  Aren't  you  going  to  eat  any,  Dawson?  " 

"  I'm  not  hungry — thanks,"  said  Vallance. 

"  We'll  go  back  to  the  Square,"  said  Ide.  "  The 
cops  won't  bother  us  there.  I'll  roll  up  the  rest  of  this 
ham  and  stuff  for  our  breakfast.  I  won't  eat  any 
more;  I'm  afraid  I'll  get  sick.  Suppose  I'd  die  of 
cramps  or  something  to-night,  and  never  get  to  touch 
that  money  again!  It's  eleven  hours  yet  till  time  to 
see  that  lawyer.  You  won't  leave  me,  will  you, 
Dawson?  I'm  afraid  something  might  happen.  You 
haven't  any  place  to  go,  have  you?  " 

"  No,"  said  Vallance,  "  nowhere  to-night.  I'll  have 
a  bench  with  you." 

"  You  take  it  cool,"  said  Ide,  "  if  you've  told  it  to 
me  straight.  I  should  think  a  man  put  on  the  bum 
from  a  good  job  just  in  one  day  would  be  tearing  his 
hair." 

"  I  believe  I've  already  remarked,"  said  Val- 
[101] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

lance,  laughing,  "  that  I  would  have  thought  that 
a  man  who  was  expecting  to  come  into  a  fortune 
on  the  next  day  would  be  feeling  pretty  easy  and 
quiet." 

"  It's  a  funny  business,"  philosophized  Ide,  "about 
the  way  people  take  things,  anyhow.  Here's  your 
bench,  Dawson,  right  next  to  mine.  The  light  don't 
shine  in  your  eyes  here.  Say,  Dawson,  I'll  get  the  old 
man  to  give  you  a  letter  to  somebody  about  a  job 
when  I  get  back  home.  You've  helped  me  a  lot  to- 
night. I  don't  believe  I  could  have  gone  through  the 
night  if  I  hadn't  struck  you." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Vallance.  "  Do  you  lie  down 
or  sit  up  on  these  when  you  sleep  ?  " 

For  hours  Vallance  gazed  almost  without  winking 
at  the  stars  through  the  branches  of  the  trees  and 
listened  to  the  sharp  slapping  of  horses'  hoofs  on  the 
sea  of  asphalt  to  the  south.  His  mind  was  active,  but 
his  feelings  were  dormant.  Every  emotion  seemed  to 
have  been  eradicated.  He  felt  no  regrets,  no  fears,  no 
pain  or  discomfort.  Even  when  he  thought  of  the  girl, 
it  was  as  of  an  inhabitant  of  one  of  those  remote  stars 
at  which  he  gazed.  He  remembered  the  absurd  antics 
of  his  companion  and  laughed  softly,  yet  without  a, 
feeling  of  mirth.  Soon  the  daily  army  of  milk  wagons 
made  of  the  city  a  roaring  drum  to  which  they 
marched.  Vallance  fell  asleep  on  his  comfortless 
bench. 

[102] 


THE  SHOCKS  OF  DOOM 

At  ten  o'clock  on  the  next  day  the  two  stood  at  the 
door  of  Lawyer  Mead's  office  in  Ann  Street. 

Ide's  nerves  fluttered  worse  than  ever  when  the 
hour  approached;  and  Vallance  could  not  decide 
to  leave  him  a  possible  prey  to  the  dangers  he 
dreaded. 

When  they  entered  the  office,  Lawyer  Mead  looked 
at  them  wonderingly.  He  and  Vallance  were  old 
friends.  After  his  greeting,  he  turned  to  Ide,  who 
stood  with  white  face  and  trembling  limbs  before  the 
expected  crisis. 

"  I  sent  a  second  letter  to  your  address  last  night, 
Mr.  Ide,"  he  said.  "  I  learned  this  morning  that  you 
were  not  there  to  receive  it.  It  will  inform  you  that 
Mr.  Paulding  has  reconsidered  his  offer  to  take  you 
back  into  favor.  He  has  decided  not  to  do  so,  and 
desires  you  to  understand  that  no  change  will  be  made 
in  the  relations  existing  between  you  and  him." 

Ide's  trembling  suddenly  ceased.  The  color  came 
back  to  his  face,  and  he  straightened  his  back.  His 
jaw  went  forward  half  an  inch,  and  a  gleam  came 
into  his  eye.  He  pushed  back  his  battered  hat  with 
one  hand,  and  extended  the  other,  with  levelled 
fingers,  toward  the  lawyer.  He  took  a  long  breath 
and  then  laughed  sardonically. 

"  Tell  old  Paulding  he  may  go  to  the  devil,"  he 
said,  loudly  and  clearly,  and  turned  and  walked  out 
of  the  office  with  a  firm  and  lively  step. 
[103] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

Lawyer  Mead  turned  on  his  heel  to  Vallance  and 
smiled. 

"  I  am  glad  you  came  in,"  he  said,  genially.  "  Your 
uncle  wants  you  to  return  home  at  once.  He  is  recon- 
ciled to  the  situation  that  led  to  his  hasty  action,  and 
desires  to  say  that  all  will  be  as " 

"  Hey,  Adams !  "  cried  Lawyer  Mead,  breaking  his 
sentence,  and  calling  to  his  clerk.  "  Bring  a  glass  of 
water — Mr.  Vallance  has  fainted." 


[104] 


THE  PLUTONIAN  FIRE 

1  HERE  are  a  few  editor  men  with  whom  I  am  privi- 
leged to  come  in  contact.  It  has  not  been  long  since  it 
was  their  habit  to  come  in  contact  with  me.  There  is 
a  difference. 

They  tell  me -that  with  a  large  number  of  the 
manuscripts  that  are  submitted  to  them  come  advices 
(in  the  way  of  a  boost)  from  the  author  asseverating 
that  the  incidents  in  the  story  are  true.  The  destina- 
tion of  such  contributions  depends  wholly  upon  the 
question  of  the  inclosure  of  stamps.  Some  are  re- 
turned, the  rest  are  thrown  on  the  floor  in  a  corner  on 
top  of  a  pair  of  gum  shoes,  an  overturned  statuette 
of  the  Winged  Victory,  and  a  pile  of  old  magazines 
containing  a  picture  of  the  editor  in  the  act  of  read- 
ing the  latest  copy  of  Le  Petit  Journal,  right  side 
up — you  can  tell  by  the  illustrations.  It  is  only  a 
legend  that  there  are  waste  baskets  in  editors' 
offices. 

Thus  is  truth  held  in  disrepute.  But  in  time  truth 
and  science  and  nature  will  adapt  themselves  to  art. 
Things  will  happen  logically,  and  the  villain  be  dis- 
comfited instead  of  being  elected  to  the  board  of 
directors.  But  in  the  meantime  fiction  must  not  only 
[105] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

be  divorced  from  fact,  but  must  pay  alimony  and  be 
awarded  custody  of  the  press  despatches. 

This  preamble  is  to  warn  you  off  the  grade  cross- 
ing of  a  true  story.  Being  that,  it  shall  be  told  sim- 
ply, with  conjunctions  substituted  for  adjectives 
wherever  possible,  and  whatever  evidences  of  style 
may  appear  in  it  shall  be  due  to  the  linotype  man. 
It  is  a  story  of  the  literary  life  in  a  great  city,  and 
it  should  be  of  interest  to  every  author  within  a  20- 
mile  radius  of  Gosport,  Ind.,  whose  desk  holds  a  MS. 
story  beginning  thus :  "  While  the  cheers  following 
his  nomination  were  still  ringing  through  the  old 
court-house,  Harwood  broke  away  from  the  con- 
gratulating handclasps  of  his  henchmen  and  hurried 
to  Judge  Cresweil's  house  to  find  Ida." 

Pettit  came  up  out  of  Alabama  to  write  fiction. 
The  Southern  papers  had  printed  eight  of  his  stories 
under  an  editorial  caption  identifying  the  author  as 
the  son  of  "  the  gallant  Major  Pettingill  Pettit,  our 
former  County  Attorney  and  hero  of  the  battle  of 
Lookout  Mountain." 

Pettit  was  a  rugged  fellow,  with  a  kind  of  shame- 
faced culture,  and  my  good  friend.  His  father  kept  a 
general  store  in  a  little  town  called  Hosea.  Pettit  had 
been  raised  in  the  pine-woods  and  broom-sedge  fields 
adjacent  thereto.  He  had  in  his  gripsack  two  manu- 
script novels  of  the  adventures  in  Picardy  of  one 
Gaston  Laboulaye,  Vicompte  de  Montrepos,  in  the 
[106] 


THE  PLUTONIAN  FIRE 

year  1329.  That's  nothing.  We  all  do  that.  And  some 
day  when  we  make  a  hit  with  the  little  sketch  about  a 
newsy  and  his  lame  dog,  the  editor  prints  the  other 
one  for  us — or  "  on  us,"  as  the  saying  is — and  then 
— and  then  we  have  to  get  a  big  valise  and  peddle 
those  patent  air-draft  gas  burners.  At  $1.25  every- 
body should  have  'em. 

I  took  Pettit  to  the  red-brick  house  which  was  to 
appear  in  an  article  entitled  "  Literary  Landmarks 
of  Old  New  York,"  some  day  when  we  got  through 
with  it.  He  engaged  a  room  there,  drawing  on  the 
general  store  for  his  expenses.  I  showed  New  York  to 
him,  and  he  did  not  mention  how  much  narrower 
Broadway  is  than  Lee  Avenue  in  Hosea.  This  seemed 
a  good  sign,  so  I  put  the  final  test. 

"  Suppose  you  try  your  hand  at  a  descriptive  arti- 
cle," I  suggested,  "  giving  your  impressions  of  New 
York  as  seen  from  the  Brooklyn  Bridge.  The  fresh 
point  of  view,  the " 

"Don't  be  a  fool,"  said  Pettit.  "Let's  go  have 
some  beer.  On  the  whole  I  rather  like  the  city." 

We  discovered  and  enjoyed  the  only  true  Bohemia. 
Every  day  and  night  we  repaired  to  one  of  those 
palaces  of  marble  and  glass  and  tilework,  where  goes 
on  a  tremendous  and  sounding  epic  of  life.  Valhalla 
itself  could  not  be  more  glorious  and  sonorous.  The 
classic  marble  on  which  we  ate,  the  great,  light- 
flooded,  vitreous  front,  adorned  with  snow-white 
[107] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

scrolls;  the  grand  Wagnerian  din  of  clanking  cups 
and  bowls,  the  flashing  staccato  of  brandishing  cut- 
lery, the  piercing  recitative  of  the  white-aproned 
grub-maidens  at  the  morgue-like  banquet  tables ;  the 
recurrent  lied-motif  of  the  cash-register — it  was  a 
gigantic,  triumphant  welding  of  art  and  sound,  a 
deafening,  soul-uplifting  pageant  of  heroic  and  em- 
blematic life.  And  the  beans  were  only  ten  cents.  We 
wondered  why  our  fellow-artists  cared  to  dine  at  sad 
little  tables  in  their  so-called  Bohemian  restaurants; 
and  we  shuddered  lest  they  should  seek  out  our 
resorts  and  make  them  conspicuous  with  their 
presence. 

Pettit  wrote  many  stories,  which  the  editors 
returned  to  him.  He  wrote  love  stories,  a  thing  I  have 
always  kept  free  from,  holding  the  belief  that  the 
well-known  and  popular  sentiment  is  not  properly  a 
matter  for  publication,  but  something  to  be  privately 
handled  by  the  alienists  and  florists.  But  the  editors 
had  told  him  that  they  wanted  love  stories,  because 
they  said  the  women  read  them. 

Now,  the  editors  are  wrong  about  that,  of  course. 
Women  do  not  read  the  love  stories  in  the  magazines. 
They  read  the  poker-game  stories  and  the  recipes 
for  cucumber  lotion.  The  love  stories  are  read  by  fat 
cigar  drummers  and  little  ten-year-old  girls.  I  am  not 
criticising  the  judgment  of  editors.  They  are  mostly 
very  fine  men,  but  a  man  can  be  but  one  man,  with 
[108] 


THE  PLUTONIAN  FIRE 

individual  opinions  and  tastes.  I  knew  two  associate 
editors  of  a  magazine  who  were  wonderfully  alike  in 
almost  everything.  And  yet  one  of  them  was  very 
fond  of  Flaubert,  while  the  other  preferred  gin. 

Pettit  brought  me  his  returned  manuscripts,  and 
we  looked  them  over  together  to  find  out  why  they 
were  not  accepted.  They  seemed  to  me  pretty  fair 
stories,  written  in  a  good  style,  and  ended,  as  they 
should,  at  the  bottom  of  the  last  page. 

They  were  well  constructed  and  the  events  were 
marshalled  in  orderly  and  logical  sequence.  But  I 
thought  I  detected  a  lack  of  living  substance — it  was 
much  as  if  I  gazed  at  a  symmetrical  array  of  present- 
able clamshells  from  which  the  succulent  and  vital  in- 
habitants had  been  removed.  I  intimated  that  the 
author  might  do  well  to  get  better  acquainted  with 
his  theme. 

"  You  sold  a  story  last  week,"  said  Pettit,  "about 
a  gun  fight  in  an  Arizona  mining  town  in  which  the 
hero  drew  his  Colt's  .45  and  shot  seven  bandits  as 
fast  as  they  came  in  the  door.  Now,  if  a  six-shooter 
could " 

"  Oh,  well,"  said  I,  "  that's  different.  Arizona  is  a 
long  way  from  New  York.  I  could  have  a  man  stabbed 
with  a  lariat  or  chased  by  a  pair  of  chaparreras  if  I 
wanted  to,  and  it  wouldn't  be  noticed  until  the  usual 
error-sharp  from  around  McAdams  Junction 
isolates  the  erratum  and  writes  in  to  the  pa- 
[109] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

pers  about  it.  But  you  are  up  against  another  propo- 
sition. This  thing  they  call  love  is  as  common  around 
New  York  as  it  is  in  Sheboygan  during  the  young 
onion  season.  It  may  be  mixed  here  with  a  little  com- 
mercialism— they  read  Byron,  but  they  look  up  Brad- 
street's,  too,  while  they're  among  the  B's,  and 
Brigham  also  if  they  have  time — but  it's  pretty  much 
the  same  old  internal  disturbance  everywhere.  You 
can  fool  an  editor  with  a  fake  picture  of  a  cowboy 
mounting  a  pony  with  his  left  hand  on  the  saddle 
horn,  but  you  can't  put  him  up  a  tree  with  a  love 
story.  So,  you've  got  to  fall  in  love  and  then  write 
the  real  thing." 

Pettit  did.  I  never  knew  whether  he  was  taking  my 
advice  or  whether  he  fell  an  accidental  victim. 

There  was  a  girl  he  had  met  at  one  of  these  studio 
contrivances — a  glorious,  impudent,  lucid,  open- 
minded  girl  with  hair  the  color  of  Culmbacher,  and  a 
good-natured  way  of  despising  you.  She  was  a  New 
York  girl. 

Well  (as  the  narrative  style  permits  us  to  say  in- 
frequently), Pettit  went  to  pieces.  All  those  pains, 
those  lover's  doubts,  those  heart-burnings  and 
tremors  of  which  he  had  written  so  unconvincingly 
were  his.  Talk  about  Shylock's  pound  of  flesh! 
Twenty-five  pounds  Cupid  got  from  Pettit.  Which  is 
the  usurer? 

One  night  Pettit  came  to  my  room  exalted.  Pale 
[110] 


THE  PLUTONIAN  FIRE 

and  haggard  but  exalted.  She  had  given  him  a 
j  onquil. 

"  Old  Hoss,"  said  he,  with  a  new  smile  flickering 
around  his  mouth,  "  I  believe  I  could  write  that  story 
to-night — the  one,  you  know,  that  is  to  win  out.  I  can 
feel  it.  I  don't  know  whether  it  will  come  out  or  not, 
but  I  can  feel  it." 

I  pushed  him  out  of  my  door.  "  Go  to  your  room 
and  write  it,"  I  ordered.  "  Else  I  can  see  your  finish. 
I  told  you  this  must  come  first.  Write  it  to-night  and 
put  it  under  my  door  when  it  is  done.  Put  it  under 
my  door  to-night  when  it  is  finished — don't  keep  it 
until  to-morrow." 

I  was  reading  my  bully  old  pal  Montaigne  at  two 
o'clock  when  I  heard  the  sheets  rustle  under  my  door. 
I  gathered  them  up  and  read  the  story. 

The  hissing  of  geese,  the  languishing  cooing  of 
doves,  the  braying  of  donkeys,  the  chatter  of  irre- 
sponsible sparrows — these  were  in  my  mind's  ear  as  I 
read.  "  Suffering  Sappho ! "  I  exclaimed  to  my- 
self. "  Is  this  the  divine  fire  that  is  supposed  to 
ignite  genius  and  make  it  practicable  and  wage- 
earning?  " 

The  story  was  sentimental  drivel,  full  of  whim- 
pering soft-heartedness  and  gushing  egoism.  All  the 
art  that  Pettit  had  acquired  was  gone.  A  perusal  of 
its  buttery  phrases  would  have  made  a  cynic  of  a 
sighing  chambermaid. 

cm] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

In  the  morning  Pettit  came  to  my  room.  I  read 
him  his  doom  mercilessly.  He  laughed  idiotically. 

"  All  right,  Old  Hoss,"  he  said,  cheerily,  "  make 
cigar-lighters  of  it.  What's  the  difference  ?  I'm  going 
to  take  her  to  lunch  at  Claremont  to-day." 

There  was  about  a  month  of  it.  And  then  Pettit 
came  to  me  bearing  an  invisible  mitten,  with  the  forti- 
tude of  a  dish-rag.  He  talked  of  the  grave  and  South 
America  and  prussic  acid;  and  I  lost  an  afternoon 
getting  him  straight.  I  took  him  out  and  saw  that 
large  and  curative  doses  of  whiskey  were  administered 
to  him.  I  warned  you  this  was  a  true  story — 'ware 
your  white  ribbons  if  you  follow  this  tale.  For  two 
weeks  I  fed  him  whiskey  and  Omar,  and  read  to  him 
regularly  every  evening  the  column  in  the  evening 
paper  that  reveals  the  secrets  of  female  beauty.  I 
recommend  the  treatment. 

After  Pettit  was  cured  he  wrote  more  stories.  He 
recovered  his  old-time  facility  and  did  work  just 
short  of  good  enough.  Then  the  curtain  rose  on  the 
third  act. 

A  little,  dark-eyed,  silent  girl  from  New  Hamp- 
shire, who  was  studying  applied  design,  fell  deeply 
in  love  with  him.  She  was  the  intense  sort,  but  exter- 
nally glace,  such  as  New  England  sometimes  fools  us 
with.  Pettit  liked  her  mildly,  and  took  her  about  a 
good  deal.  She  worshipped  him,  and  now  and  then 
bored  him. 

[112] 


THE  PLUTONIAN  FIRE 

There  came  a  climax  when  she  tried  to  jump  out 
of  a  window,  and  he  had  to  save  her  by  some  perfunc- 
tory, unmeant  wooing.  Even  I  was  shaken  by  the 
depths  of  the  absorbing  affection  she  showed.  Home, 
friends,  traditions,  creeds  went  up  like  thistle-down 
in  the  scale  against  her  love.  It  was  really  discom- 
posing. 

One  night  again  Pettit  sauntered  in,  yawning.  As 
he  had  told  me  before,  he  said  he  felt  that  he  could  do 
a  great  story,  and  as  before  I  hunted  him  to  his  room 
and  saw  him  open  his  inkstand.  At  one  o'clock  the 
sheets  of  paper  slid  under  my  door. 

I  read  that  story,  and  I  jumped  up,  late  as  it  was, 
with  a  whoop  of  joy.  Old  Pettit  had  done  it.  Just  as 
though  it  lay  there,  red  and  bleeding,  a  woman's 
heart  was  written  into  the  lines.  You  couldn't  see  the 
joining,  but  art,  exquisite  art,  and  pulsing  nature 
had  been  combined  into  a  love  story  that  took  you 
by  the  throat  like  the  quinsy.  I  broke  into  Pettit's 
room  and  beat  him  on  the  back  and  called  him  names 
— names  high  up  in  the  galaxy  of  the  immortals  that 
we  admired.  And  Pettit  yawned  and  begged  to  be 
allowed  to  sleep. 

On  the  morrow,  I  dragged  him  to  an  editor.  The 
great  man  read,  and,  rising,  gave  Pettit  his  hand. 
That  was  a  decoration,  a  wreath  of  bay,  and  a  guar- 
antee of  rent. 

And  then  old  Pettit  smiled  slowly.  I  call  him  Gen- 
[113] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

tleman  Pettit  now  to  myself.  It's  a  miserable  name  to 
give  a  man,  but  it  sounds  better  than  it  looks  in 
print. 

"  I  see,"  said  old  Pettit,  as  he  took  up  his  story  and 
began  tearing  it  into  small  strips.  "  I  see  the  game 
now.  You  can't  write  with  ink,  and  you  can't  write 
with  your  own  heart's  blood,  but  you  can  write  with 
the  heart's  blood  of  some  one  else.  You  have  to  be  a 
cad  before  you  can  be  an  artist.  Well,  I  am  for  old 
Alabam  and  the  Major's  store.  Have  you  got  a  light, 
OldHoss?" 

I  went  with  Pettit  to  the  depot  and  died  hard. 

"  Shakespeare's  sonnets  ?  "  I  blurted,  making  a  last 
stand.  "  How  about  him  ?  " 

"  A  cad,"  said  Pettit.  "  They  give  it  to  you,  and 
you  sell  it — love,  you  know.  I'd  rather  sell  ploughs 
for  father." 

"  But,"  I  protested,  "  you  are  reversing  the  de- 
cision of  the  world's  greatest " 

"  Good-by,  Old  Hoss,"  said  Petit. 

"  Critics,"  I  continued.  "  But — say — if  the  Major 
can  use  a  fairly  good  salesman  and  bookkeeper  down 
there  in  the  store,  let  me  know,  will  you  ?  " 


[114] 


NEMESIS  AND  THE  CANDY  MAN 

WE  sail  at  eight  in  the  morning  on  the  Celtic,"  said 
Honoria,  plucking  a  loose  thread  from  her  lace 
sleeve. 

"  I  heard  so,"  said  young  Ives,  dropping  his  hat, 
and  muffing  it  as  he  tried  to  catch  it,  "  and  I  came 
around  to  wish  you  a  pleasant  voyage." 

"  Of  course  you  heard  it,"  said  Honoria,  coldly 
sweet,  "  since  we  have  had  no  opportunity  of  inform- 
ing you  ourselves." 

Ives  looked  at  her  pleadingly,  but  with  little  hope. 

Outside  in  the  street  a  high-pitched  voice 
chanted,  not  unmusically,  a  commercial  gamut  of 
"  Cand-ee-ee-ee-s !  Nice,  fresh  cand-ee-ee-ee-ees  !  " 

"  It's  our  old  candy  man,"  said  Honoria,  leaning 
out  the  window  and  beckoning.  "  I  want  some  of  his 
motto  kisses.  There's  nothing  in  the  Broadway  shops 
half  so  good." 

The  candy  man  stopped  his  pushcart  in  front  of 
the  old  Madison  Avenue  home.  He  had  a  holiday  and 
festival  air  unusual  to  street  peddlers.  His  tie  was  new 
and  bright  red,  and  a  horseshoe  pin,  almost  life-size, 
glittered  speciously  from  its  folds.  His  brown,  thin 
face  was  crinkled  into  a  semi-foolish  smile.  Striped 
[115] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

cuffs  with  dog-head  buttons  covered  the  tan  on  his 
wrists. 

"  I  do  believe  he's  going  to  get  married,"  said 
Honoria,  pityingly.  "  I  never  saw  him  taken  that  way 
before.  And  to-day  is  the  first  time  in  months  that  he 
has  cried  his  wares,  I  am  sure." 

Ives  threw  a  coin  to  the  sidewalk.  The  candy  man 
knows  his  customers.  He  filled  a  paper  bag,  climbed 
the  old-fashioned  stoop  and  handed  it  in. 

"  I  remember "  said  Ives. 

"  Wait,"  said  Honoria. 

She  took  a  small  portfolio  from  the  drawer  of  a 
writing  desk  and  from  the  portfolio  a  slip  of  flimsy 
paper  one-quarter  of  an  inch  by  two  inches  in  size. 

"  This,"  said  Honoria,  inflexibly,  "  was  wrapped 
about  the  first  one  we  opened." 

"  It  was  a  year  ago,"  apologized  Ives,  as  he  held 
out  his  hand  for  it, 

"As  long  as  skies  above  are  blue 
To  you,  my  love,  I  will  be  true." 

This  he  read  from  the  slip  of  flimsy  paper. 

"  We  were  to  have  sailed  a  fortnight  ago,"  said 
Honoria,  gossipingly.  "  It  has  been  such  a  warm 
summer.  The  town  is  quite  deserted.  There  is  nowhere 
to  go.  Yet  I  am  told  that  one  or  two  of  the  roof  gar- 
dens are  amusing.  The  singing — and  the  dancing — 
on  one  or  two  seem  to  have  met  with  approval." 

Ives  did  not  wince.  When  you  are  in  the  ring  you 
[116] 


NEMESIS  AND  THE  CANDY  MAN 

are  not  surprised  when  your  adversary  taps  you  on 
the  ribs. 

"  I  followed  the  candy  man  that  time,"  said  Ives, 
irrelevantly,  "  and  gave  him  five  dollars  at  the  corner 
of  Broadway." 

He  reached  for  the  paper  bag  in  Honoria's  lap, 
took  out  one  of  the  square,  wrapped  confections  and 
slowly  unrolled  it. 

"  Sara  Chillingworth's  father,"  said  Honoria, 
"  has  given  her  an  automobile." 

"  Read  that,"  said  Ives,  handing  over  the  slip  that 
had  been  wrapped  around  the  square  of  candy. 

"  Life  teaches  us — how  to  live. 
Love  teaches  us — to  forgive." 

Honoria's  cheeks  turned  pink. 

"  Honoria ! "  cried  Ives,  starting  up  from  his 
chair. 

"  Miss  Clinton,"  corrected  Honoria,  rising  like 
Venus  from  the  bead  on  the  surf.  "  I  warned  you  not 
to  speak  that  name  again." 

"  Honoria,"  repeated  Ives.  "  you  must  hear  me.  I 
know  I  do  not  deserve  your  forgiveness,  but  I  must 
have  it.  There  is  a  madness  that  possesses  one  some- 
times for  which  his  better  nature  is  not  responsible. 
I  throw  everything  else  but  you  to  the  winds.  I  strike 
off  the  chains  that  have  bound  me.  I  renounce  the 
siren  that  lured  me  from  you.  Let  the  bought  verse 
of  that  street  peddler  plead  for  me.  It  is  you  only 
[117] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

whom  I  can  love.  Let  your  love  forgive,  and  I  swear 
to  you  that  mine  will  be  true  '  as  long  as  skies  above 
are  blue.'  " 

On  the  west  side,  between  Sixth  and  Seventh  Ave- 
nues, an  alley  cuts  the  block  in  the  middle.  It  perishes 
in  a  little  court  in  the  centre  of  the  block.  The  district 
is  theatrical;  the  inhabitants,  the  bubbling  froth  of 
half  a  dozen  nations.  The  atmosphere  is  Bohemian, 
the  language  polyglot,  the  locality  precarious. 

In  the  court  at  the  rear  of  the  alley  lived  the  candy 
man.  At  seven  o'clock  he  pushed  his  cart  into  the  nar- 
row entrance,  rested  it  upon  the  irregular  stone  slats 
and  sat  upon  one  of  the  handles  to  cool  himself.  There 
was  a  great  draught  of  cool  wind  through  the  alley. 

There  was  a  window  above  the  spot  where  he  always 
stopped  his  pushcart.  In  the  cool  of  the  afternoon, 
Mile.  Adele,  drawing  card  of  the  Aerial  Roof  Garden, 
sat  at  the  window  and  took  the  air.  Generally  her 
ponderous  mass  of  dark  auburn  hair  was  down,  that 
the  breeze  might  have  the  felicity  of  aiding  Sidonie, 
the  maid,  in  drying  and  airing  it.  About  her  shoulders 
—the  point  of  her  that  the  photographers  always 
made  the  most  of — was  loosely  draped  a  heliotrope 
scarf.  Her  arms  to  the  elbow  were  bare — there  were  no 
sculptors  there  to  rave  over  them — but  even  the  stolid 
bricks  in  the  walls  of  the  alley  should  not  have  been 
so  insensate  as  to  disapprove.  While  she  sat  thus 
[118] 


NEMESIS  AND  THE  CANDY  MAN 

Felice,  another  maid,  anointed  and  bathed  the  small 
feet  that  twinkled  and  so  charmed  the  nightly  Aerial 
audiences. 

Gradually  Mademoiselle  began  to  notice  the  candy 
man  stopping  to  mop  his  brow  and  cool  himself  be- 
neath her  window.  In  the  hands  of  her  maids  she  was 
deprived  for  the  time  of  her  vocation — the  charming 
and  binding  to  her  chariot  of  man.  To  lose  time 
was  displeasing  to  Mademoiselle.  Here  was  the  candy 
man — no  fit  game  for  her  darts,  truly — but  of  the 
sex  upon  which  she  had  been  born  to  make  war. 

After  casting  upon  him  looks  of  unseeing  coldness 
for  a  dozen  times,  one  afternoon  she  suddenly  thawed 
and  poured  down  upon  him  a  smile  that  put  to  shame 
the  sweets  upon  his  cart. 

"  Candy  man,"  she  said,  cooingly,  while  Sidonie 
followed  her  impulsive  dive,  brushing  the  heavy 
auburn  hair,  "  don't  you  think  I  am  beautiful?  " 

The  candy  man  laughed  harshly,  and  looked  up, 
with  his  thin  jaw  set,  while  he  wiped  his  forehead 
with  a  red-and-blue  handkerchief. 

"  Yer'd  make  a  dandy  magazine  cover,"  he  said, 
grudgingly.  "  Beautiful  or  not  is  for  them  that  cares. 
It's  not  my  line.  If  yer  lookin'  for  bouquets  apply 
elsewhere  between  nine  and  twelve.  I  think  we'll  have 
rain." 

Truly,  fascinating  a  candy  man  is  like  killing  rab- 
bits in  a  deep  snow;  but  the  hunter's  blood  is  widely 
[119] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

diffused.  Mademoiselle  tugged  a  great  coil  of  hair 
from  Sidonie's  hands  and  let  it  fall  out  the  window. 

"  Candy  man,  have  you  a  sweetheart  anywhere  with 
hair  as  long  and  soft  as  that?  And  with  an  arm  so 
round?"  She  flexed  an  arm  like  Galatea's  after  the 
miracle  across  the  window-sill. 

The  candy  man  cackled  shrilly  as  he  arranged  a 
stock  of  butter-scotch  that  had  tumbled  down. 

"  Smoke  up !"  said  he,  vulgarly.  "  Nothin'  doin' 
in  the  complimentary  line.  I'm  too  wise  to  be  bam- 
boozled by  a  switch  of  hair  and  a  newly  massaged 
arm.  Oh,  I  guess  you'll  make  good  in  the  calcium, 
all  right,  with  plenty  of  powder  and  paint  on  and  the 
orchestra  playing  '  Under  the  Old  Apple  Tree.'  But 
don't  put  on  your  hat  and  chase  downstairs  to  fly  to 
the  Little  Church  Around  the  Corner  with  me.  I've 
been  up  against  peroxide  and  make-up  boxes  before. 
Say,  all  joking  aside — don't  you  think  we'll  have 
rain?" 

"  Candy  man,"  said  Mademoiselle,  softly,  with  her 
lips  curving  and  her  chin  dimpling,  "  don't  you  think 
I'm  pretty?" 

The  candy  man  grinned. 

"  Savin'  money,  ain't  yer  ?  "  said  he,  "  by  bein'  yer 
own  press  agent.  I  smoke,  but  I  haven't  seen  yer  mug 
on  any  of  the  five-cent  cigar  boxes.  It'd  take  a  new 
brand  of  woman  to  get  me  goin',  anyway.  I  know  'em 
from  sidecombs  to  shoelaces.  Gimme  a  good  day's  sales 
[120] 


NEMESIS  AND  THE  CANDY  MAN 

and  steak-and-onions  at  seven  and  a  pipe  and  an 
evenin'  paper  back  there  in  the  court,  and  I'll  not 
trouble  Lillian  Russell  herself  to  wink  at  me,  if  you 
please." 

Mademoiselle  pouted. 

"  Candy  man,"  she  said,  softly  and  deeply,  "  yet 
you  shall  say  that  I  am  beautiful.  All  men  say  so 
and  so  shall  you." 

The  candy  man  laughed  and  pulled  out  his  pipe. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  "I  must  be  goin'  in.  There  is  a 
story  in  the  evenin'  paper  that  I  am  readin'.  Men 
are  divin'  in  the  seas  for  a  treasure,  and  pirates  are 
watchin'  them  from  behind  a  reef.  And  there  ain't 
a  woman  on  land  or  water  or  in  the  air. 
Good-evenin'."  And  he  trundled  his  pushcart 
down  the  alley  and  back  to  the  musty  court  where  he 
lived. 

Incredibly  to  him  who  has  not  learned  woman, 
Mademoiselle  sat  at  the  window  each  day  and  spread 
her  nets  for  the  ignominious  game.  Once  she  kept  a 
grand  cavalier  waiting  in  her  reception  chamber  for 
half  an  hour  while  she  battered  in  vain  the  candy 
man's  tough  philosophy.  His  rough  laugh  chafed  her 
vanity  to  its  core.  Daily  he  sat  on  his  cart  in  the 
breeze  of  the  alley  while  her  hair  was  being  ministered 
to,  and  daily  the  shafts  of  her  beauty  rebounded  from 
his  dull  bosom  pointless  and  ineffectual.  Unworthy 
pique  brightened  her  eyes.  Pride-hurt  she  glowed  upon 
[121] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

him  in  a  way  that  would  have  sent  her  higher  adorers 
into  an  egoistic  paradise.  The  candy  man's  hard  eyes 
looked  upon  her  with  a  half-concealed  derision  that 
urged  her  to  the  use  of  the  sharpest  arrow  in  her 
beauty's  quiver. 

One  afternoon  she  leaned  far  over  the  sill,  and  she 
did  not  challenge  and  torment  him  as  usual. 

"  Candy  man,"  said  she,  "  stand  up  and  look  into 
my  eyes." 

He  stood  up  and  looked  into  her  eyes,  with  his 
harsh  laugh  like  the  sawing  of  wood.  He  took  out  his 
pipe,  fumbled  with  it,  and  put  it  back  into  his  pocket 
with  a  trembling  hand. 

"  That  will  do,"  said  Mademoiselle,  with  a  slow 
smile.  "  I  must  go  now  to  my  masseuse.  Good-even- 
ing." 

The  next  evening  at  seven  the  candy  man  came  and 
rested  his  cart  under  the  window.  But  was  it  the 
candy  man?  His  clothes  were  a  bright  new  check. 
His  necktie  was  a  flaming  red,  adorned  by  a  glitter- 
ing horseshoe  pin,  almost  life-size.  His  shoes  were 
polished ;  the  tan  of  his  cheeks  had  paled — his  hands 
had  been  washed.  The  window  was  empty,  and  he 
waited  under  it  with  his  nose  upward,  like  a  hound 
hoping  for  a  bone. 

Mademoiselle  came,  with  Sidonie  carrying  her  load 
of  hair.  She  looked  at  the  candy  man  and  smiled  a 
slow  smile  that  faded  away  into  ennui.  Instantly  she 


NEMESIS  AND  THE  CANDY  MAN 

knew  that  the  game  was  bagged;  and  so  quickly 
she  wearied  of  the  chase.  She  began  to  talk  to 
Sidonie. 

"  Been  a  fine  day,"  said  the  candy  man,  hollowly. 
"  First  time  in  a  month  I've  felt  first-class.  Hit  it  up 
down  old  Madison,  hollering  out  like  I  useter.  Think 
it'll  rain  to-morrow?  " 

Mademoiselle  laid  two  round  arms  on  the  cushion 
on  the  window-sill,  and  a  dimpled  chin  upon  them. 

"  Candy  man,"  said  she,  softly,  "  do  you  not 
love  me?  " 

The  candy  man  stood  up  and  leaned  against  the 
brick  wall. 

"  Lady,"  said  he,  chokingly,  "  I've  got  $800  saved 
up.  Did  I  say  you  wasn't  beautiful?  Take  it  every  bit 
of  it  and  buy  a  collar  for  your  dog  with  it." 

A  sound  as  of  a  hundred  silvery  bells  tinkled  in  the 
room  of  Mademoiselle.  The  laughter  filled  the  alley 
and  trickled  back  into  the  court,  as  strange  a  thing  to 
enter  there  as  sunlight  itself.  Mademoiselle  was 
amused.  Sidonie,  a  wise  echo,  added  a  sepulchral  but 
faithful  contralto.  The  laughter  of  the  two  seemed 
at  last  to  penetrate  the  candy  man.  He  fumbled  with 
his  horseshoe  pin.  At  length  Mademoiselle,  exhausted, 
turned  her  flushed,  beautiful  face  to  the  window. 

"  Candy  man,"  said  she,  "  go  away.  When  I  laugh 
Sidonie  pulls  my  hair.  I  can  but  laugh  while  you 
remain  there." 

[123] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

"  Here  is  a  note  for  Mademoiselle,"  said  Felice, 
coming  to  the  window  in  the  room. 

"  There  is  no  justice,"  said  the  candy  man,  lift- 
ing the  handle  of  his  cart  and  moving  away. 

Three  yards  he  moved,  and  stopped.  Loud  shriek 
after  shriek  came  from  the  window  of  Mademoiselle. 
Quickly  he  ran  back.  He  heard  a  body  thumping  upon 
the  floor  and  a  sound  as  though  heels  beat  alternately 
upon  it. 

"What  is  it?"  he  called. 

Sidonie's  severe  head  came  into  the  window. 

"  Mademoiselle  is  overcome  by  bad  news,"  she  said. 
"  One  whom  she  loved  with  all  her  soul  has  gone — 
you  may  have  heard  of  him — he  is  Monsieur  Ives. 
He  sails  across  the  ocean  to-morrow.  Oh,  you  men ! " 


[124] 


SQUARING  THE  CIRCLE 

AT  the  hazard  of  wearying  you  this  tale  of  vehe- 
ment emotions  must  be  prefaced  by  a  discourse  on 
geometry. 

Nature  moves  in  circles;  Art  in  straight  lines. 
The  natural  is  rounded;  the  artificial  is  made  up 
of  angles.  A  man  lost  in  the  snow  wanders,  in  spite 
of  himself,  in  perfect  circles ;  the  city  man's  feet, 
denaturalized  by  rectangular  streets  and  floors,  carry 
him  ever  away  from  himself. 

The  round  eyes  of  childhood  typify  innocence; 
the  narrowed  line  of  the  flirt's  optic  proves  the  in- 
vasion of  art.  The  horizontal  mouth  is  the  mark  of 
determined  cunning ;  who  has  not  read  Nature's  most 
spontaneous  lyric  in  lips  rounded  for  the  candid  kiss  ? 

Beauty  is  Nature  in  perfection ;  circularity  is 
its  chief  attribute.  Behold  the  full  moon,  the  en- 
chanting golf  ball,  the  domes  of  splendid  temples, 
the  huckleberry  pie,  the  wedding  ring,  the  circus  ring, 
the  ring  for  the  waiter,  and  the  "  round  "  of  drinks. 

On  the  other  hand,  straight  lines  show  that  Na- 
ture has  been  deflected.  Imagine  Venus's  girdle  trans- 
formed into  a  "  straight  front  " ! 

When  we  begin  to  move  in  straight  lines  and  turn 
[125] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

sharp  corners  our  natures  begin  to  change.  The  con- 
sequence is  that  Nature,  being  more  adaptive  than 
Art,  tries  to  conform  to  its  sterner  regulations.  The 
result  is  often  a  rather  curious  product — for  in- 
stance: A  prize  chrysanthemum,  wood  alcohol  whis- 
key, a  Republican  Missouri,  cauliflower  au  grat'm, 
and  a  New  Yorker. 

Nature  is  lost  quickest  in  a  big  city.  The  cause 
is  geometrical,  not  moral.  The  straight  lines  of  its 
streets  and  architecture,  the  rectangularity  of  its 
laws  and  social  customs,  the  undeviating  pavements, 
the  hard,  severe,  depressing,  uncompromising  rules 
of  all  its  ways — even  of  its  recreations  and  sports — 
coldly  exhibit  a  sneering  defiance  of  the  curved  line 
of  Nature. 

Wherefore,  it  may  be  said  that  the  big  city  has 
demonstrated  the  problem  of  squaring  the  circle.  And 
it  may  be  added  that  this  mathematical  introduction 
precedes  an  account  of  the  fate  of  a  Kentucky  feud 
that  was  imported  to  the  city  that  has  a  habit  of 
making  its  importations  conform  to  its  angles. 

The  feud  began  in  the  Cumberland  Mountains  be- 
tween the  Folwell  and  the  Harkness  families.  The 
first  victim  of  the  homespun  vendetta  was  a  'possum 
dog  belonging  to  Bill  Harkness.  The  Harkness 
family  evened  up  this  dire  loss  by  laying  out  the 
chief  of  the  Folwell  clan.  The  Folwells  were  prompt 
at  repartee.  They  oiled  up  their  squirrel  rifles  and 
[126] 


SQUARING  THE  CIRCLE 

made  it  feasible  for  Bill  Harkness  to  follow  his  dog 
to  a  land  where  the  'possums  come  down  when  treed 
without  the  stroke  of  an  ax. 

The  feud  flourished  for  forty  years.  Harknesses 
were  shot  at  the  plough,  through  their  lamp-lit  cabin 
windows,  coming  from  camp-meeting,  asleep,  in  duello, 
sober  and  otherwise,  singly  and  in  family  groups, 
prepared  and  unprepared.  Folwells  had  the  branches 
of  their  family  tree  lopped  off  in  similar  ways,  as  the 
traditions  of  their  country  prescribed  and  authorized. 

By  and  by  the  pruning  left  but  a  single  member 
of  each  family.  And  then  Cal  Harkness,  probably 
reasoning  that  further  pursuance  of  the  controversy 
would  give  a  too  decided  personal  flavor  to  the  feud, 
suddenly  disappeared  from  the  relieved  Cumberlands, 
baulking  the  avenging  hand  of  Sam,  the  ultimate  op- 
posing Folwell. 

A  year  afterward  Sam  Folwell  learned  that  his 
hereditary,  unsuppressed  enemy  was  h'ving  in  New 
York  City.  Sam  turned  over  the  big  iron  wash- 
pot  in  the  yard,  scraped  off  some  of  the  soot,  which 
he  mixed  with  lard  and  shined  his  boots  with  the  com- 
pound. He  put  on  his  store  clothes  of  butternut  dyed 
black,  a  white  shirt  and  collar,  and  packed  a  carpet- 
sack  with  Spartan  lingerie.  He  took  his  squirrel  rifle 
from  its  hooks,  but  put  it  back  again  with  a  sigh. 
However  ethical  and  plausible  the  habit  might  be  in 
the  Cumberlands,  perhaps  New  York  would  not  swal- 
[127] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

low  his  pose  of  hunting  squirrels  among  the  sky- 
scrapers along  Broadway.  An  ancient  but  reliable 
Colt's  revolver  that  he  resurrected  from  a  bureau 
drawer  seemed  to  proclaim  itself  the  pink  of  weapons 
for  metropolitan  adventure  and  vengeance.  This  and 
a  hunting-knife  in  a  leather  sheath,  Sam  packed  in 
the  carpet-sack.  As  he  started,  muleback,  for  the  low- 
land railroad  station  the  last  Folwell  turned  in  his 
saddle  and  looked  grimly  at  the  little  cluster  of 
white-pine  slabs  in  the  clump  of  cedars  that  marked 
the  Folwell  burying-ground. 

Sam  Folwell  arrived  in  New  York  in  the  night. 
Still  moving  and  living  in  the  free  circles  of  nature, 
he  did  not  perceive  the  formidable,  pitiless,  restless, 
fierce  angles  of  the  great  city  waiting  in  the  dark 
to  close  about  the  rotundity  of  his  heart  and  brain 
and  mould  him  to  the  form  of  its  millions  of  re- 
shaped victims.  A  cabby  picked  him  out  of  the  whirl, 
as  Sam  himself  had  often  picked  a  nut  from  a  bed 
of  wind-tossed  autumn  leaves,  and  whisked  him  away 
to  a  hotel  commensurate  to  his  boots  and  carpet- 
sack. 

On  the  next  morning  the  last  of  the  Folwells  made 
his  sortie  into  the  city  that  sheltered  the  last  Hark- 
ness.  The  Colt  was  thrust  beneath  his  coat  and  se- 
cured by  a  narrow  leather  belt ;  the  hunting-knife 
hung  between  his  shoulder-blades,  with  the  haft  an 
inch  below  his  coat  collar.  He  knew  this  much — 
[128] 


SQUARING  THE  CIRCLE 

that  Cal  Harkness  drove  an  express  wagon  some- 
where in  that  town,  and  that  he,  Sam  Folwell,  had 
come  to  kill  him.  And  as  he  stepped  upon  the  sidewalk 
the  red  came  into  his  eye  and  the  feud-hate  into  his 
heart. 

The  clamor  of  the  central  avenues  drew  him  thith- 
erward. He  had  half  expected  to  see  Cal  coming 
down  the  street  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  with  a  jug  and 
a  whip  in  his  hand,  just  as  he  would  have  seen  him 
in  Frankfort  or  Laurel  City.  But  an  hour  went  by 
and  Cal  did  not  appear.  Perhaps  he  was  waiting  in 
ambush,  to  shoot  him  from  a  door  or  a  window.  Sam 
kept  a  sharp  eye  on  doors  and  windows  for  a  while. 

About  noon  the  city  tired  of  playing  with  its  mouse 
and  suddenly  squeezed  him  with  its  straight  lines. 

Sam  Folwell  stood  where  two  great,  rectangular 
arteries  of  the  city  cross.  He  looked  four  ways,  and 
saw  the  world  hurled  from  its  orbit  and  reduced 
by  spirit  level  and  tape  to  an  edged  and  cornered 
plane.  All  life  moved  on  tracks,  in  grooves,  accord- 
ing to  system,  within  boundaries,  by  rote.  The  root 
of  life  was  the  cube  root ;  the  measure  of  existence 
was  square  measure.  People  streamed  by  in  straight 
rows ;  the  horrible  din  and  crash  stupefied  him. 

Sam  leaned  against  the  sharp  corner  of  a  stone 
building.  Those  faces  passed  him  by  thousands,  and 
none  of  them  were  turned  toward  him.  A  sudden  fool- 
ish fear  that  he  had  died  and  was  a  spirit,  'and  that 
[129] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

they  could  not  see  him,  seized  him.  And  then  the  city 
smote  him  with  loneliness. 

A  fat  man  dropped  out  of  the  stream  and  stood 
a  few  feet  distant,  waiting  for  his  car.  Sam  crept 
to  his  side  and  shouted  above  the  tumult  into  his 
ear: 

"  The  Rankinses'  hogs  weighed  more'n  ourn  a 
whole  passel,  but  the  mast  in  thar  neighborhood  was 
a  fine  chance  better  than  what  it  was  down " 

The  fat  man  moved  away  unostentatiously,  and 
bought  roasted  chestnuts  to  cover  his  alarm. 

Sam  felt  the  need  of  a  drop  of  mountain  dew. 
Across  the  street  men  passed  in  and  out  through 
swinging  doors.  Brief  glimpses  could  be  had  of  a 
glistening  bar  and  its  bedeckings.  The  feudist  crossed 
and  essayed  to  enter.  Again  had  Art  eliminated 
the  familiar  circle.  Sam's  hand  found  no  door-knob 
— it  slid,  in  vain,  over  a  rectangular  brass  plate  and 
polished  oak  with  nothing  even  so  large  as  a  pin's 
head  upon  which  his  fingers  might  close. 

Abashed,  reddened,  heartbroken,  he  walked  away 
from  the  bootless  door  and  sat  upon  a  step.  A  locust 
club  tickled  him  in  the  ribs. 

"  Take  a  walk  for  yourself,"  said  the  policeman. 
"  You've  been  loafing  around  here  long  enough." 

At  the  next  corner  a  shrill  whistle  sounded  in  Sam's 
ear.  He  wheeled  around  and  saw  a  black-browed  vil- 
lain scowling  at  him  over  peanuts  heaped  on  a  steam- 
[130] 


SQUARING  THE  CIRCLE 

ing  machine.  He  started  across  the  street.  An  immense 
engine,  running  without  mules,  with  the  voice  of  a 
bull  and  the  smell  of  a  smoky  lamp,  whizzed  past, 
grazing  his  knee.  A  cab-driver  bumped  him  with  a 
hub  and  explained  to  him  that  kind  words  were  in- 
vented to  be  used  on  other  occasions.  A  motorman 
clanged  his  bell  wildly  and,  for  once  in  his  life,  cor- 
roborated a  cab-driver.  A  large  lady  in  a  changeable 
silk  waist  dug  an  elbow  into  his  back,  and  a  newsy 
pensively  pelted  him  with  banana  rinds,  murmuring, 
"  I  hates  to  do  it — but  if  anybody  seen  me  let  it 
pass ! " 

Cal  Harkness,  his  day's  work  over  and  his  express 
wagon  stabled,  turned  the  sharp  edge  of  the  build- 
ing that,  by  the  cheek  of  architects,  is  modelled  upon 
a  safety  razor.  Out  of  the  mass  of  hurrying  peo- 
ple his  eye  picked  up,  three  yards  away,  the  sur- 
viving bloody  and  implacable  foe  of  his  kith  and 
kin. 

He  stopped  short  and  wavered  for  a  moment,  be- 
ing unarmed  and  sharply  surprised.  But  the  keen 
mountaineer's  eye  of  Sam  Folwell  had  picked  him  out. 

There  was  a  sudden  spring,  a  ripple  in  the  stream 
of  passers-by  and  the  sound  of  Sam's  voice  crying : 

"  Howdy,  Cal !  I'm  durned  glad  to  see  ye." 

And  in  the  angles  of  Broadway,  Fifth  Avenue  and 
Twenty-third  Street  the  Cumberland  feudists  shook 
hands. 

[131] 


ROSES,  RUSES  AND  ROMANCE 


the  traveller,  artist  and 
poet,  threw  his  magazine  to  the  floor.  Sammy  Brown, 
broker's  clerk,  who  sat  by  the  window,  jumped. 

"  What  is  it,  Ravvy?  "  he  asked.  "  The  critics  been 
hammering  your  stock  down  ?  " 

"  Romance  is  dead,"  said  Ravenel,  lightly.  When 
Ravenel  spoke  lightly  he  was  generally  serious.  He 
picked  up  the  magazine  and  fluttered  its  leaves. 

"  Even  a  Philistine,  like  you,  Sammy,"  said  Rave- 
nel, seriously  (a  tone  that  insured  him  to  be  speak- 
ing lightly  )  ,  "  ought  to  understand.  Now,  here  is  a 
magazine  that  once  printed  Poe  and  Lowell  and 
Whitman  and  Bret  Harte  and  Du  Maurier  and  Lanier 
and  —  well,  that  gives  you  the  idea.  The  current  num- 
ber has  this  literary  feast  to  set  before  you:  an  ar- 
ticle on  the  stokers  and  coal  bunkers  of  battle-ships, 
an  expose  of  the  methods  employed  in  making  liver- 
wurst,  a  continued  story  of  a  Standard  Preferred 
International  Baking  Powder  deal  in  Wall  Street,  a 
'  poem  '  on  the  bear  that  the  President  missed,  an- 
other '  story  '  by  a  young  woman  who  spent  a  week 
as  a  spy  making  overalls  on  the  East  Side,  another 
'  fiction  '  story  that  reeks  of  the  '  garage  '  and  a  cer- 
[132] 


ROSES,  RUSES  AND  ROMANCE 

tain  make  of  automobile.  Of  course,  the  title  contains 
the  words  '  Cupid  '  and  '  Chauffeur  ' — an  article  on 
naval  strategy,  illustrated  with  cuts  of  the  Spanish 
Armada,  and  the  new  Staten  Island  ferry-boats ;  an- 
other story  of  a  political  boss  who  won  the  love  of  a 
Fifth  Avenue  belle  by  blacking  her  eye  and  refusing 
to  vote  for  an  iniquitous  ordinance  (it  doesn't  say 
whether  it  was  in  the  Street-Cleaning  Department  or 
Congress),  and  nineteen  pages  by  the  editors  brag- 
ging about  the  circulation.  The  whole  thing,  Sammy, 
is  an  obituary  on  Romance." 

Sammy  Brown  sat  comfortably  in  the  leather  arm- 
chair by  the  open  window.  His  suit  was  a  vehement 
brown  with  visible  checks,  beautifully  matched  in 
shade  by  the  ends  of  four  cigars  that  his  vest  pocket 
poorly  concealed.  Light  tan  were  his  shoes,  gray 
his  socks,  sky-blue  his  apparent  linen,  snowy  and  high 
and  adamantine  his  collar,  against  which  a  black  but- 
terfly had  alighted  and  spread  his  wings.  Sammy's 
face — least  important — was  round  and  pleasant  and 
pinkish,  and  in  his  eyes  you  saw  no  haven  for  fleeing 
Romance. 

That  window  of  Ravenel's  apartment  opened  upon 
an  old  garden  full  of  ancient  trees  and  shrubbery. 
The  apartment-house  towered  above  one  side  of  it; 
a  high  brick  wall  fended  it  from  the  street;  oppo- 
site Ravenel's  window  an  old,  old  mansion  stood,  half- 
hidden  in  the  shade  of  the  summer  foliage.  The  house 
[133] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

was  a  castle  besieged.  The  city  howled  and  roared 
and  shrieked  and  beat  upon  its  double  doors,  and 
shook  white,  fluttering  checks  above  the  wall,  offering 
terms  of  surrender.  The  gray  dust  settled  upon  the 
trees;  the  siege  was  pressed  hotter,  but  the  draw- 
bridge was  not  lowered.  No  further  will  the  language 
of  chivalry  serve.  Inside  lived  an  old  gentleman  who 
loved  his  home  and  did  not  wish  to  sell  it.  That  is  all 
the  romance  of  the  besieged  castle. 

Three  or  four  times  every  week  came  Sammy 
Brown  to  Ravenel's  apartment.  He  belonged  to  the 
poet's  club,  for  the  former  Browns  had  been  con- 
spicuous, though  Sammy  had  been  vulgarized  by 
Business.  He  had  no  tears  for  departed  Romance. 
The  song  of  the  ticker  was  the  one  that  reached 
his  heart,  and  when  it  came  to  matters  equine  and 
batting  scores  he  was  something  of  a  pink  edition. 
He  loved  to  sit  in  the  leather  armchair  by  Ravenel's 
window.  And  Ravenel  didn't  mind  particularly.  Sam- 
my seemed  to  enjoy  his  talk;  and  then  the  broker's 
clerk  was  such  a  perfect  embodiment  of  modernity 
and  the  day's  sordid  practicality  that  Ravenel  rather 
liked  to  use  him  as  a  scapegoat. 

"  I'll  tell  you  what's  the  matter  with  you,"  said 
Sammy,  with  the  shrewdness  that  business  had  taught 
him.  "  The  magazine  has  turned  down  some  of  your 
poetry  stunts.  That's  why  you  are  sore  at  it." 

"  That  would  be  a  good  guess  in  Wall  Street  or  in 
[134] 


ROSES,  RUSES  AND  ROMANCE 

a  campaign  for  the  presidency  of  a  woman's  club," 
said  Ravenel,  quietly.  "  Now,  there  is  a  poem — if 
you  will  allow  me  to  call  it  that — of  my  own  in  this 
number  of  the  magazine." 

"  Read  it  to  me,"  said  Sammy,  watching  a  cloud 
of  pipe-smoke  he  had  just  blown  out  the  window. 

Ravenel  was  no  greater  than  Achilles.  No  one  is. 
There  is  bound  to  be  a  spot.  The  Somebody-or-Other 
must  take  hold  of  us  somewhere  when  she  dips  us  in 
the  Something-or-Other  that  makes  us  invulnerable. 
He  read  aloud  this  verse  in  the  magazine: 

THE  FOUR  ROSES 

"  One  rose  I  twined  within  your  hair — 

(White  rose,  that  spake  of  worth) ; 
And  one  you  placed  upon  your  breast — 

(Red  rose,  love's  seal  of  birth). 
You  plucked  another  from  its  stem — 

(Tea  rose,  that  means  for  aye); 
And  one  you  gave — that  bore  for  me 

The  thorns  of  memory." 

"That's  a  cracker  jack,"  said  Sammy,  admiringly. 

"  There  are  five  more  verses,"  said  Ravenel,  pa- 
tiently sardonic.  "  One  naturally  pauses  at  the  end 
of  each.  Of  course " 

"  Oh,  let's  have  the  rest,  old  man,"  shouted  Sammy, 

contritely,  "  I  didn't  mean  to  cut  you  off.  I'm  not 

much  of  a  poetry  expert,  you  know.  I  never  saw  a 

poem  that  didn't  look  like  it  ought  to  have  terminal 

[135] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

facilities  at  the  end  of  every  verse.  Reel  off  the  rest 
of  it." 

Ravenel  sighed,  and  laid  the  magazine  down.  "  All 
right,"  said  Sammy,  cheerfully,  "  we'll  have  it  next 
time.  I'll  be  off  now.  Got  a  date  at  five  o'clock." 

He  took  a  last  look  at  the  shaded  green  garden 
and  left,  whistling  in  an  off  key  an  untuneful  air 
from  a  roofless  farce  comedy. 

The  next  afternoon  Ravenel,  while  polishing  a 
ragged  line  of  a  new  sonnet,  reclined  by  the  win- 
dow overlooking  the  besieged  garden  of  the  unmer- 
cenary  baron.  Suddenly  he  sat  up,  spilling  two 
rhymes  and  a  syllable  or  two. 

Through  the  trees  one  window  of  the  old  mansion 
could  be  seen  clearly.  In  its  window,  draped  in  flow- 
ing white,  leaned  the  angel  of  all  his  dreams  of  ro- 
mance and  poesy.  Young,  fresh  as  a  drop  of  dew, 
graceful  as  a  spray  of  clematis,  conferring  upon  the 
garden  hemmed  in  by  the  roaring  traffic  the  air 
of  a  princess's  bower,  beautiful  as  any  flower  sung 
by  poet — thus  Ravenel  saw  her  for  the  first  time. 
She  lingered  for  a  while,  and  then  disappeared  within, 
leaving  a  few  notes  of  a  birdlike  ripple  of  song  to 
reach  his  entranced  ears  through  the  rattle  of  cabs 
and  the  snarling  of  the  electric  cars. 

Thus,  as  if  to  challenge  the  poet's  flaunt  at  ro- 
mance and  to  punish  him  for  his  recreancy  to  the 
undying  spirit  of  youth  and  beauty,  this  vision  had 
[136] 


ROSES,  RUSES  AND  ROMANCE 

dawned  upon  him  with  a  thrilling  and  accusive  power. 
And  so  metabolic  was  the  power  that  in  an  instant 
the  atoms  of  Ravenel's  entire  world  were  redistrib- 
uted. The  laden  drays  that  passed  the  house  in  which 
she  lived  rumbled  a  deep  double-bass  to  the  tune  of 
love.  The  newsboys'  shouts  were  the  notes  of  singing 
birds ;  that  garden  was  the  pleasance  of  the  Capulets ; 
the  j  anitor  was  an  ogre ;  himself  a  knight,  ready  with 
sword,  lance  or  lute. 

Thus  does  romance  show  herself  amid  forests  of 
brick  and  stone  when  she  gets  lost  in  the  city,  and 
there  has  to  be  sent  out  a  general  alarm  to  find  her 
again. 

At  four  in  the  afternoon  Ravenel  looked  out  across 
the  garden.  In  the  window  of  his  hopes  were  set 
four  small  vases,  each  containing  a  great,  full-blown 
rose — red  and  white.  And,  as  he  gazed,  she  leaned 
above  them,  shaming  them  with  her  loveliness,  and 
seeming  to  direct  her  eyes  pensively  toward  his  own 
window.  And  then,  as  though  she  had  caught  his 
respectful  but  ardent  regard,  she  melted  away,  leav- 
ing the  fragrant  emblems  on  the  window-sill. 

Yes,  emblems  ! — he  would  be  unworthy  if  he  had  not 
understood.  She  had  read  his  poem,  "  The  Four 
Roses  " ;  it  had  reached  her  heart ;  and  this  was  its 
romantic  answer.  Of  course  she  must  know  that 
Ravenel,  the  poet,  lived  there  across  her  garden.  His 
picture,  too,  she  must  have  seen  in  the  magazines. 
[137] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

The  delicate,  tender,  modest,  flattering  message  could 
not  be  ignored. 

Ravenel  noticed  beside  the  roses  a  small  flower- 
pot containing  a  plant.  Without  shame  he  brought 
his  opera-glasses  and  employed  them  from  the  cover 
of  his  window-curtain.  A  nutmeg  geranium! 

With  the  true  poetic  instinct  he  dragged  a  book 
of  useless  information  from  his  shelves,  and  tore  open 
the  leaves  at  "  The  Language  of  Flowers." 

"  Geranium,  Nutmeg — I  expect  a  meeting." 

So!  Romance  never  does  things  by  halves.  If  she 
comes  back  to  you  she  brings  gifts  and  her  knitting, 
and  will  sit  in  your  chimney-corner  if  you  will  let 
her. 

And  now  Ravenel  smiled.  The  lover  smiles 
when  he  thinks  he  has  won.  The  woman  who  loves 
ceases  to  smile  with  victory.  He  ends  a  battle;  sht 
begins  hers.  What  a  pretty  idea  to  set  the  four 
roses  in  her  window  for  him  to  see!  She  must  have 
a  sweet,  poetic  soul.  And  now  to  contrive  the 
meeting. 

A  whistling  and  slamming  of  doors  preluded  the 
coming  of  Sammy  Brown. 

Ravenel  smiled  again.  Even  Sammy  Brown  was 
shone  upon  by  the  far-flung  rays  of  the  renaissance. 
Sammy,  with  his  ultra  clothes,  his  horseshoe  pin,  his 
plump  face,  his  trite  slang,  his  uncomprehending 
admiration  of  Ravenel — the  broker's  clerk  made  an 
[138] 


ROSES,  RUSES  AND  ROMANCE 

excellent  foil  to  the  new,  bright  unseen  visitor  to 
the  poet's  sombre  apartment. 

Sammy  went  to  his  old  seat  by  the  window,  and 
looked  out  over  the  dusty  green  foliage  in  the 
garden.  Then  he  looked  at  his  watch,  and  rose 
hastily. 

"  By  grabs !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  Twenty  after  four ! 
I  can't  stay,  old  man ;  I've  got  a  date  at  4 :30." 

"  Why  did  you  come,  then  ?  "  asked  Ravenel,  with 
sarcastic  jocularity,  "  if  you  had  an  engagement  at 
that  time.  I  thought  you  business  men  kept  better 
account  of  your  minutes  and  seconds  than  that." 

Sammy  hesitated  in  the  doorway  and  turned 
pinker. 

"  Fact  is,  Ravvy,"  he  explained,  as  to  a  customer 
whose  margin  is  exhausted,  "  I  didn't  know  I  had  it 
till  I  came.  I'll  tell  you,  old  man — there's  a  dandy 
girl  in  that  old  house  next  door  that  I'm  dead  gone 
on.  I  put  it  straight — we're  engaged.  The  old  man 
says  '  nit ' — but  that  don't  go.  He  keeps  her  pretty 
close.  I  can  see  Edith's  window  from  yours  here.  She 
gives  me  a  tip  when  she's  going  shopping,  and  I 
meet  her.  It's  4:30  to-day.  Maybe  I  ought  to 
have  explained  sooner,  but  I  know  it's  all  right  with 
you — so  long." 

"  How  do  you  get  your '  tip,'  as  you  call  it  ?  "  asked 
Ravenel,  losing  a  little  spontaneity  from  his  smile. 

"  Roses,"  said  Sammy,  briefly.  "  Four  of  'em  to- 
[139] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

day.  Means  four  o'clock  at  the  corner  of  Broadway 
and  Twenty-third." 

"But  the  geranium?"  persisted  Ravenel,  clutch- 
ing at  the  end  of  flying  Romance's  trailing  robe. 

"  Means  half -past,"  shouted  Sammy  from  the  hall. 
tf  See  you  to-morrow." 


[140] 


THE  CITY  OF  DREADFUL  NIGHT 

DURING  the  recent  warmed-over  spell,"  said  my 
friend  Carney,  driver  of  express  wagon  No.  8,606, 
"  a  good  many  opportunities  was  had  of  observing 
human  nature  through  peekaboo  waists. 

"  The  Park  Commissioner  and  the  Commissioner 
of  Polis  and  the  Forestry  Commission  gets  together 
and  agrees  to  let  the  people  sleep  in  the  parks  until 
the  Weather  Bureau  gets  the  thermometer  down  again 
to  a  living  basis.  So  they  draws  up  open-air  resolu- 
tions and  has  them  O.  K.'d  by  the  Secretary  of  Agri- 
culture, Mr.  Comstock  and  the  Village  Improvement 
Mosquito  Exterminating  Society  of  South  Orange, 
N.  J. 

"  When  the  proclamation  was  made  opening  up  to 
the  people  by  special  grant  the  public  parks  that  be- 
long to  'em,  there  was  a  general  exodus  into  Central 
Park  by  the  communities  existing  along  its  borders. 
In  ten  minutes  after  sundown  you'd  have  thought 
that  there  was  an  undress  rehearsal  of  a  potato 
famine  in  Ireland  and  a  Kishineff  massacre.  They 
come  by  families,  gangs,  clambake  societies,  clans, 
clubs  and  tribes  from  all  sides  to  enjoy  a  cool  sleep  on 
the  grass.  Them  that  didn't  have  oil  stoves  brought 
[141] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

along  plenty  of  blankets,  so  as  not  to  be  upset  with 
the  cold  and  discomforts  of  sleeping  outdoors.  By 
building  fires  of  the  shade  trees  and  huddling  together 
in  the  bridle  paths,  and  burrowing  under  the  grass 
where  the  ground  was  soft  enough,  the  likes  of  5,000 
head  of  people  successfully  battled  against  the  night 
air  in  Central  Park  alone. 

"  Ye  know  I  live  in  the  elegant  furnished  apart- 
ment house  called  the  Beersheba  Flats,  over  against 
the  elevated  portion  of  the  New  York  Central  Rail- 
road. 

"  When  the  order  come  to  the  flats  that  all  hands 
must  turn  out  and  sleep  in  the  park,  according  to  the 
instructions  of  the  consulting  committee  of  the  City 
Club  and  the  Murphy  Draying,  Returfing  and  Sod- 
ding Company,  there  was  a  look  of  a  couple  of  fires 
and  an  eviction  all  over  the  place. 

"The  tenants  began  to  pack  up  feather  beds,  rub- 
ber boots,  strings  of  garlic,  hot-water  bags,  porta- 
ble canoes  and  scuttles  of  coal  to  take  along  for  the 
sake  of  comfort.  The  sidewalk  looked  like  a  Russian 
camp  in  Oyama's  line  of  march.  There  was  wailing 
and  lamenting  up  and  down  stairs  from  Danny  Geog- 
hegan's  flat  on  the  top  floor  to  the  apartments  of 
Missis  Goldsteinupski  on  the  first. 

"  '  For  why,'  says  Danny,  coming  down  and  raging 
in  his  blue  yarn  socks  to  the  janitor,  'should  I  be 
turned  out  of  me  comfortable  apartmints  to  lay  in 
[142] 


THE  CITY  OF  DREADFUL  NIGHT 

the  dirty  grass  like  a  rabbit?  'Tis  like  Jerome  to  stir 
up  trouble  wid  small  matters  like  this  instead 
of ' 


44  4 


Whist ! '  says  Officer  Reagan  on  the  sidewalk, 
rapping  with  his  club.  '  'Tis  not  Jerome.  'Tis  by  or- 
der of  the  Polis  Commissioner.  Turn  out  every  one  of 
yez  and  hike  yerselves  to  the  park.' 

"  Now,  'twas  a  peaceful  and  happy  home  that  all 
of  us  had  in  them  same  Beersheba  Flats.  The  O'Dowds 
and  the  Steinowitzes  and  the  Callahans  and  the 
Cohens  and  the  Spizzinellis  and  the  McManuses  and 
the  Spiegelmayers  and  the  Joneses — all  nations  of  us, 
we  lived  like  one  big  family  together.  And  when  the 
hot  nights  come  along  we  kept  a  line  of  childher 
reaching  from  the  front  door  to  Kelly's  on  the  corner, 
passing  along  the  cans  of  beer  from  one  to  another 
without  the  trouble  of  running  after  it.  And  with  no 
more  clothing  on  than  is  provided  for  in  the  statutes, 
sitting  in  all  the  windies,  with  a  cool  growler  in  every 
one,  and  your  feet  out  in  the  air,  and  the  Rosen- 
stein  girls  singing  on  the  fire-escape  of  the  sixth  floor, 
and  Patsy  Rourke's  flute  going  in  the  eighth,  and  the 
ladies  calling  each  other  synonyms  out  the  windies, 
and  now  and  then  a  breeze  sailing  in  over  Mister 
Depew's  Central — I  tell  you  the  Beersheba  Flats  was 
a  summer  resort  that  made  the  Catskills  look  like 
a  hole  in  the  ground.  With  his  person  full  of  beer 
and  his  feet  out  the  windy  and  his  old  woman  frying 
[143] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

pork  chops  over  a  charcoal  furnace  and  the  childher 
dancing  in  cotton  slips  on  the  sidewalk  around  the 
organ-grinder  and  the  rent  paid  for  a  week — what 
does  a  man  want  better  on  a  hot  night  than  that? 
And  then  comes  this  ruling  of  the  polis  driving  people 
out  o'  their  comfortable  homes  to  sleep  in  parks — 
'twas  for  all  the  world  like  a  ukase  of  them  Rus- 
sians— 'twill  be  heard  from  again  at  next  election 
time. 

"  Well,  then,  Officer  Reagan  drives  the  whole  lot 
of  us  to  the  park  and  turns  us  in  by  the  nearest 
gate.  'Tis  dark  under  the  trees,  and  all  the  childher 
sets  up  to  howling  that  they  want  to  go  home. 

"  *  Ye'll  pass  the  night  in  this  stretch  of  woods  and 
scenery,'  says  Officer  Reagan.  '  'Twill  be  fine  and 
imprisonment  for  insoolting  the  Park  Commissioner 
and  the  Chief  of  the  Weather  Bureau  if  ye  refuse. 
I'm  in  charge  of  thirty  acres  between  here  and  the 
Agyptian  Monument,  and  I  advise  ye  to  give  no 
trouble.  'Tis  sleeping  on  the  grass  yez  all  have  been 
condemned  to  by  the  authorities.  Yez'll  be  permitted 
to  leave  in  the  morning,  but  ye  must  retoorn  be  night. 
Me  orders  was  silent  on  the  subject  of  bail,  but  I'll 
find  out  if  'tis  required  and  there'll  be  bondsmen  at 
the  gate.' 

"  There  being  no  lights  except  along  the  automo- 
bile drives,  us  179  tenants  of  the  Beersheba  Flats  pre- 
pared to  spend  the  night  as  best  we  could  in  the 
[144] 


THE  CITY  OF  DREADFUL  NIGHT 

raging  forest.  Them  that  brought  blankets  and  kin- 
dling wood  was  best  off.  They  got  fires  started  and 
wrapped  the  blankets  round  their  heads  and  laid  down, 
cursing,  in  the  grass.  There  was  nothing  to  see,  noth- 
ing to  drink,  nothing  to  do.  In  the  dark  we  had  no 
way  of  telling  friend  or  foe  except  by  feeling  the  noses 
of  'em.  I  brought  along  me  last  winter  overcoat, 
me  tooth-brush,  some  quinine  pills  and  the  red  quilt 
off  the  bed  in  me  flat.  Three  times  during  the  night 
somebody  rolled  on  me  quilt  and  stuck  his  knees 
against  the  Adam's  apple  of  me.  And  three  times  I 
judged  his  character  by  running  me  hand  over  his 
face,  and  three  times  I  rose  up  and  kicked  the  in- 
truder down  the  hill  to  the  gravelly  walk  below.  And 
then  some  one  with  a  flavor  of  Kelly's  whisky  snug- 
gled up  to  me,  and  I  found  his  nose  turned  up  the 
right  way,  and  I  says:  '  Is  that  you,  then,  Patsey?  ' 
and  he  says,  '  It  is,  Carney.  How  long  do  you  think 
it'll  last?' 

"  '  I'm  no  weather-prophet,'  says  I,  *  but  if  they 
bring  out  a  strong  anti-Tammany  ticket  next  fall  it 
ought  to  get  us  home  in  time  to  sleep  on  a  bed  once 
or  twice  before  they  line  us  up  at  the  polls.' 

"  '  A-playing  of  my  flute  into  the  airshaft,'  says 
Patsey  Rourke,  '  and  a-perspiring  in  me  own  windy 
to  the  joyful  noise  of  the  passing  trains  and  the  smell 
of  liver  and  onions  and  a-reading  of  the  latest  mur- 
der in  the  smoke  of  the  cooking  is  well  enough  for 
[145] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

me,'  says  he.  fi  What  is  this  herding  us  in  grass  for, 
not  to  mention  the  crawling  things  with  legs  that  walk 
up  the  trousers  of  us,  and  the  Jersey  snipes  that 
peck  at  us,  masquerading  under  the  name  and  de- 
nomination of  mosquitoes.  What  is  it  all  for,  Carney, 
and  the  rint  going  on  just  the  same  over  at  the  flats?  ' 

"  '  'Tis  the  great  annual  Municipal  Free  Night 
Outing  Lawn  Party,'  says  I,  '  given  by  the  polis, 
Hetty  Green  and  the  Drug  Trust.  During  the  heated 
season  they  hold  a  week  of  it  in  the  principal  parks. 
'Tis  a  scheme  to  reach  that  portion  of  the  people  that's 
not  worth  taking  up  to  North  Beach  for  a  fish  fry.' 

"  ' 1  can't  sleep  on  the  ground,'  says  Patsey,  '  wid 
any  benefit.  I  have  the  hay  fever  and  the  rheuma- 
tism, and  me  ear  is  full  of  ants.' 

"  Well,  the  night  goes  on,  and  the  ex-tenants  of 
the  Flats  groans  and  stumbles  around  in  the  dark, 
trying  to  find  rest  and  recreation  in  the  forest.  The 
childher  is  screaming  with  the  coldness,  and  the  jan- 
itor makes  hot  tea  for  'em  and  keeps  the  fires  going 
with  the  signboards  that  point  to  the  Tavern  and  the 
Casino.  The  tenants  try  to  lay  down  on  the  grass  by 
families  in  the  dark,  but  you're  lucky  if  you  can  sleep 
next  to  a  man  from  the  same  floor  or  believing  in 
the  same  religion.  Now  and  then  a  Murphy,  acci- 
dental, rolls  over  on  the  grass  of  a  Rosenstein,  or 
a  Cohen  tries  to  crawl  under  the  O'Grady  bush,  and 
then  there's  a  feeling  of  noses  and  somebody  is  rolled 
[146] 


THE  CITY  OF  DREADFUL  NIGHT 

down  the  hill  to  the  driveway  and  stays  there.  There 
is  some  hair-pulling  among  the  women  folks,  and 
everybody  spanks  the  nearest  howling  kid  to  him  by 
the  sense  of  feeling  only,  regardless  of  its  parentage 
and  ownership.  'Tis  hard  to  keep  up  the  social  dis- 
tinctions in  the  dark  that  flourish  by  daylight  in  the 
Beersheba  Flats.  Mrs.  Raff erty,  that  despises  the  as- 
phalt that  a  Dago  treads  on,  wakes  up  in  the  morning 
with  her  feet  in  the  bosom  of  Antonio  Spizzinelli.  And 
Mike  O'Dowd,  that  always  threw  peddlers  downstairs 
as  fast  as  he  came  upon  'em,  has  to  unwind  old  Isaac- 
stein's  whiskers  from  around  his  neck,  and  wake  up 
the  whole  gang  at  daylight.  But  here  and  there  some 
few  got  acquainted  and  overlooked  the  discomforts 
of  the  elements.  There  was  five  engagements  to  be 
married  announced  at  the  flats  the  next  morning. 

"  About  midnight  I  gets  up  and  wrings  the  dew 
out  of  my  hair,  and  goes  to  the  side  of  the  driveway 
and  sits  down.  At  one  side  of  the  park  I  could  see 
the  lights  in  the  streets  and  houses ;  and  I  was  thinking 
how  happy  them  folks  was  who  could  chase  the  duck 
and  smoke  their  pipes  at  their  windows,  and  keep 
cool  and  pleasant  like  nature  intended  for  'em  to. 

"  Just  then  an  automobile  stops  by  me,  and  a  fine- 
looking,  well-dressed  man  steps  out. 

"  '  Me  man,'  says  he, '  can  you  tell  me  why  all  these 
people  are  lying  around  on  the  grass  in  the  park? 
I  thought  it  was  against  the  rules.' 
[147] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

"  '  'Twas  an  ordinance,5  says  I,  6  just  passed  by 
the  Polls  Department  and  ratified  by  the  Turf  Cut- 
ters' Association,  providing  that  all  persons  not  car- 
rying a  license  number  on  their  rear  axles  shall  keep 
in  the  public  parks  until  further  notice/Fortunately, 
the  orders  comes  this  year  during  a  spell  of  fine 
weather,  and  the  mortality,  except  on  the  borders  of 
the  lake  and  along  the  automobile  drives,  will  not  be 
any  greater  than  usual.' 

"  '  Who  are  these  people  on  the  side  of  the  hill?  ' 
asks  the  man. 

"  '  Sure,'  says  I,'  6  none  others  than  the  tenants  of 
the  Beersheba  Flats — a  fine  home  for  any  man,  es- 
pecially on  hot  nights.  May  daylight  come  soon ! ' 

"  '  They  come  here  be  night,'  says  he,  '  and  breathe 
in  the  pure  air  and  the  fragrance  of  the  flowers  and 
trees.  They  do  that,'  says  he,  '  coming  every  night 
from  the  burning  heat  of  dwellings  of  brick  and  stone.' 

"  '  And  wood,'  says  I.  '  And  marble  and  plaster 
and  iron.' 

"  '  The  matter  will  be  attended  to  at  once,'  says  the 
man,  putting  up  his  book. 

"  '  Are  ye  the  Park  Commissioner?  '  I  asks. 

"  '  I  own  the  Beersheba  Flats,'  says  he.  '  God  bless 
the  grass  and  the  trees  that  give  extra  benefits  to  a 
man's  tenants.  The  rents  shall  be  raised  fifteen  per 
cent,  to-morrow.  Good-night,'  says  he." 

[148] 


THE  EASTER  OF  THE  SOUL 

IT  is  hardly  likely  that  a  goddess  may  die.  Then 
Eastre,  the  old  Saxon  goddess  of  spring,  must  be 
laughing  in  her  muslin  sleeve  at  people  who  believe 
that  Easter,  her  namesake,  exists  only  along  cer- 
tain strips  of  Fifth  Avenue  pavement  after  church 
service. 

Aye!  It  belongs  to  the  world.  The  ptarmigan  in 
Chilkoot  Pass  discards  his  winter  white  feathers  for 
brown;  the  Patagonian  Beau  Brummell  oils  his  chi- 
gnon and  clubs  him  another  sweetheart  to  drag  to  his 
skull-strewn  flat.  And  down  in  Chrystie  Street 

Mr.  "  Tiger  "  McQuirk  arose  with  a  feeling  of 
disquiet  that  he  did  not  understand.  With  a  practised 
foot  he  rolled  three  of  his  younger  brothers  like  logs 
out  of  his  way  as  they  lay  sleeping  on  the  floor.  Be- 
fore a  foot-square  looking  glass  hung  by  the  window 
he  stood  and  shaved  himself.  If  that  may  seem  to  you 
a  task  too  slight  to  be  thus  impressively  chronicled, 
I  bear  with  you ;  you  do  not  know  of  the  areas  to  be 
accomplished  in  traversing  the  cheek  and  chin  of  Mr. 
McQuirk. 

McQuirk,  senior,  had  gone  to  work  long  before. 
The  big  son  of  the  house  was  idle.  He  was  a  marble- 
cutter,  and  the  marble-cutters  were  out  on  a  strike. 
[149] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

"  What  ails  ye  ?  "  asked  his  mother,  looking  at  him 
curiously ;  "  are  ye  not  feeling  well  the  morning, 
maybe  now  ?  " 

"  He's  thinking  along  of  Annie  Maria  Doyle,"  im- 
pudently explained  younger  brother  Tim,  ten  years 
old. 

"  Tiger  "  reached  over  the  hand  of  a  champion 
and  swept  the  small  McQuirk  from  his  chair. 

"  I  feel  fine,"  said  he,  "  beyond  a  touch  of  the 
I-don't-know-what-you-call-its.  I  feel  like  there  was 
going  to  be  earthquakes  or  music  or  a  trifle  of  chills 
and  fever  or  maybe  a  picnic.  I  don't  know  how  I 
feel.  I  feel  like  knocking  the  face  off  a  policeman, 
or  else  maybe  like  playing  Coney  Island  straight 
across  the  board  from  pop-corn  to  the  elephant 
houdahs." 

"  It's  the  spring  in  yer  bones,"  said  Mrs.  McQuirk. 
"  It's  the  sap  risin'.  Time  was  when  I  couldn't  keep 
me  feet  still  nor  me  head  cool  when  the  earthworms 
began  to  crawl  out  in  the  dew  of  the  mornin'.  'Tis 
a  bit  of  tea  will  do  ye  good,  made  from  pipsissewa 
and  gentian  bark  at  the  druggist's." 

"  Back  up ! "  said  Mr.  McQuirk,  impatiently. 
"  There's  no  spring  in  sight.  There's  snow  yet  on 
the  shed  in  Donovan's  backyard.  And  yesterday  they 
puts  open  cars  on  the  Sixth  Avenue  lines,  and  the 
janitors  have  quit  ordering  coal.  And  that  means 
six  weeks  more  of  winter,  by  all  the  signs  that  be." 
[150] 


THE  EASTER  OF  THE  SOUL 

After  breakfast  Mr.  McQuirk  spent  fifteen 
minutes  before  the  corrugated  mirror,  subjugating 
his  hair  and  arranging  his  green-and-purple  ascot 
with  its  amethyst  tombstone  pin — eloquent  of  his 
chosen  calling. 

Since  the  strike  had  been  called  it  was  this  par- 
ticular striker's  habit  to  hie  himself  each  morning 
to  the  corner  saloon  of  Flaherty  Brothers,  and  there 
establish  himself  upon  the  sidewalk,  with  one  foot 
resting  on  the  bootblack's  stand,  observing  the 
panorama  of  the  street  until  the  pace  of  time  brought 
twelve  o'clock  and  the  dinner  hour.  And  Mr.  "  Tiger  " 
McQuirk,  with  his  athletic  seventy  inches,  well  trained 
in  sport  and  battle;  his  smooth,  pale,  solid,  amiable 
face — blue  where  the  razor  had  travelled;  his  care- 
fully considered  clothes  and  air  of  capability,  was 
himself  a  spectacle  not  displeasing  to  the  eye. 

But  on  this  morning  Mr.  McQuirk  did  not  hasten 
immediately  to  his  post  of  leisure  and  observation. 
Something  unusual  that  he  could  not  quite  grasp  was 
in  the  air.  Something  disturbed  his  thoughts,  ruffled 
his  senses,  made  him  at  once  languid,  irritable,  elated, 
dissatisfied  and  sportive.  He  was  no  diagnostician, 
and  he  did  not  know  that  Lent  was  breaking  up 
physiologically  in  his  system. 

Mrs.  McQuirk  had  spoken  of  spring.  Sceptically 
"  Tiger  "  looked  about  him  for  signs.  Few  they  were. 
The  organ-grinders  were  at  work;  but  they  were  al- 
[151] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

ways  precocious  harbingers.  It  was  near  enough 
spring  for  them  to  go  penny-hunting  when  the  skat- 
ing ball  dropped  at  the  park.  In  the  milliners'  win- 
dows Easter  hats,  grave,  gay  and  jubilant,  blos- 
somed. There  were  green  patches  among  the  side- 
walk debris  of  the  grocers.  On  a  third-story  window- 
sill  the  first  elbow  cushion  of  the  season — old  gold 
stripes  on  a  crimson  ground — supported  the  kimo- 
noed  arms  of  a  pensive  brunette.  The  wind  blew  cold 
from  the  East  River,  but  the  sparrows  were  flying 
to  the  eaves  with  straws.  A  second-hand  store,  com- 
bining foresight  with  faith,  had  set  out  an  ice-chest 
and  baseball  goods. 

And  then  "  Tiger's  "  eye,  discrediting  these  signs, 
fell  upon  one  that  bore  a  bud  of  promise.  From  a 
bright,  new  lithograph  the  head  of  Capricornus  con- 
fronted him,  betokening  the  forward  and  heady 
brew. 

Mr.  McQuirk  entered  the  saloon  and  called  for  his 
glass  of  bock.  He  threw  his  nickel  on  the  bar,  raised 
the  glass,  set  it  down  without  tasting  it  and  strolled 
toward  the  door. 

"  Wot's  the  matter,  Lord  Bolinbroke?  "  inquired 
the  sarcastic  bartender ;  "  want  a  chiny  vase  or  a 
gold-lined  epergne  to  drink  it  out  of — hey?  " 

"  Say,"  said  Mr.  McQuirk,  wheeling  and  shooting 
out  a  horizontal  hand  and  a  forty -five-degree  chin, 
"  you  know  your  place  only  when  it  comes  for  givin' 
[152] 


THE  EASTER  OF  THE  SOUL 

titles.  I've  changed  me  mind  about  drinkin' — see? 
You  got  your  money,  ain't  you?  Wait  till  you  get 
stung  before  you  get  the  droop  to  your  lip,  will  you  ?  " 

Thus  Mr.  Quirk  added  mutability  of  desires  to  the 
strange  humors  that  had  taken  possession  of  him. 

Leaving  the  saloon,  he  walked  away  twenty  steps 
and  leaned  in  the  open  doorway  of  Lutz,  the  barber. 
He  and  Lutz  were  friends,  masking  their  sentiments 
behind  abuse  and  bludgeons  of  repartee. 

"Irish  loafer,"  roared  Lutz,  "how  do  you  do? 
So,  not  yet  haf  der  bolicemans  or  der  catcher  of 
dogs  done  deir  duty !  " 

"Hello,  Dutch,"  said  Mr.  McQuirk.  "  Can't  get 
your  mind  off  of  frankfurters,  can  you?  " 

"  Bah !  "  exclaimed  the  German,  coming  and  lean- 
ing in  the  door.  "  I  haf  a  soul  above  frankfurters 
to-day.  Dere  is  springtime  in  der  air.  I  can  feel  it 
coming  in  ofer  der  mud  of  der  streets  and  das  ice 
in  der  river.  Soon  will  dere  be  bicnics  in  der  islands, 
mit  kegs  of  beer  under  der  trees." 

"  Say,"  said  Mr.  McQuirk,  setting  his  hat  on  one 
side,  "  is  everybody  kiddin'  me  about  gentle  Spring  ? 
There  ain't  any  more  spring  in  the  air  than  there 
is  in  a  horsehair  sofa  in  a  Second  Avenue  furnished 
room.  For  me  the  winter  underwear  yet  and  the  buck- 
wheat cakes." 

"  You  haf  no  boetry,"  said  Lutz.  "True,  it  is  yedt 
cold,  und  in  der  city  we  haf  not  many  of  der  signs; 
[153] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

but  dere  are  dree  kinds  of  beoble  dot  should  always 
feel  der  approach  of  spring  first — dey  are  boets, 
lovers  and  poor  vidows." 

Mr.  McQuirk  went  on  his  way,  still  possessed  by 
the  strange  perturbation  that  he  did  not  understand. 
Something  was  lacking  to  his  comfort,  and  it  made 
him  half  angry  because  he  did  not  know  what  it  was. 

Two  blocks  away  he  came  upon  a  foe,  one  Conover, 
whom  he  was  bound  in  honor  to  engage  in  combat. 

Mr.  McQuirk  made  the  attack  with  the  charac- 
teristic suddenness  and  fierceness  that  had  gained  for 
him  the  endearing  sobriquet  of  "  Tiger."  The  defence 
of  Mr.  Conover  was  so  prompt  and  admirable  that 
the  conflict  was  protracted  until  the  onlookers  un- 
selfishly gave  the  warning  cry  of  "  Cheese  it — the 
cop ! "  The  principals  escaped  easily  by  running 
through  the  nearest  open  doors  into  the  communi- 
cating backyards  at  the  rear  of  the  houses. 

Mr.  McQuirk  emerged  into  another  street.  He  stood 
by  a  lamp-post  for  a  few  minutes  engaged  in  thought 
and  then  he  turned  and  plunged  into  a  small  notion 
and  news  shop.  A  red-haired  young  woman,  eating 
gum-drops,  came  and  looked  freezingly  at  him 
across  the  ice-bound  steppes  of  the  counter. 

"  Say,  lady,"  he  said,  "  have  you  got  a  song  book 
with  this  in  it.  Let's  see  how  it  leads  off — 

"  When  the  springtime  comes  we'll  wander  in  the  dale,  love, 

And  whisper  of  those  happy  days  of  yore " 

[154] 


THE  EASTER  OF  THE  SOUL 

"  I'm  having  a  friend,"  explained  Mr.  McQuirk, 
"  laid  up  with  a  broken  leg,  and  he  sent  me  after 
it.  He's  a  devil  for  songs  and  poetry  when  he  can't 
get  out  to  drink." 

"  We  have  not,"  replied  the  young  woman,  with  un- 
concealed contempt.  "  But  there  is  a  new  song  out 
that  begins  this  way: 

" '  Let  us  sit  together  in  the  old  arm-chair ; 

And  while  the  firelight  flickers  we'll  be  comfortable  there." 

There  will  be  no  profit  in  following  Mr.  "  Tiger  " 
McQuirk  through  his  further  vagaries  of  that  day 
until  he  comes  to  stand  knocking  at  the  door  of  Annie 
Maria  Doyle.  The  goddess  Eastre,  it  seems,  had 
guided  his  footsteps  aright  at  last. 

"  Is  that  you  now,  Jimmy  McQuirk?  "  she  cried, 
smiling  through  the  opened  door  (Annie  Maria  had 
never  accepted  the  "Tiger").  "Well,  whatever!" 

"  Come  out  in  the  hall,"  said  Mr.  McQuirk.  "  I 
want  to  ask  yer  opinion  of  the  weather — on  the  level." 

"  Are  you  crazy,  sure?  "  said  Annie  Maria. 

"  I  am,"  said  the  "  Tiger."  "  They've  been  telling 
me  all  day  there  was  spring  in  the  air.  Were  they 
liars?  Or  ami?" 

"  Dear  me !  "  said  Annie  Maria — "  haven't  you  no- 
ticed it?  I  can  almost  smell  the  violets.  And  the  green 
grass.  Of  course,  there  ain't  any  yet — it's  just  a  kind 
of  feeling,  you  know." 

"  That's  what  I'm  getting  at,"  said  Mr.  McQuirk. 
[155] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

"  I've  had  it.  I  didn't  recognize  it  at  first.  I  thought 
maybe  it  was  en-wee,  contracted  the  other  day  when 
I  stepped  above  Fourteenth  Street.  But  the  katzen- 
jammer  I've  got  don't  spell  violets.  It  spells  yer  own 
name,  Annie  Maria,  and  it's  you  I  want.  I  go  to  work 
next  Monday,  and  I  make  four  dollars  a  day.  Spiel 
up,  old  girl — <lo  we  make  a  team?  " 

"  Jimmy,"  sighed  Annie  Maria,  suddenly  disap- 
pearing in  his  overcoat,  "  don't  you  see  that  spring 
is  all  over  the  world  right  this  minute?  " 

But  you  yourself  remember  how  that  day  ended. 
Beginning  with  so  fine  a  promise  of  vernal  things, 
late  in  the  afternoon  the  air  chilled  and  an  inch  of 
snow  fell — even  so  late  in  March.  On  Fifth  Avenue 
the  ladies  drew  their  winter  furs  close  about  them. 
Only  in  the  florists'  windows  could  be  perceived  any 
signs  of  the  morning  smile  of  the  coming  goddess 
Eastre. 

At  six  o'clock  Herr  Lutz  began  to  close  his  shop. 
He  heard  a  well-known  shout :  "  Hello,  Dutch !  " 

"  Tiger"  McQuirk,  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  with  his 
hat  on  the  back  of  his  head,  stood  outside  in  the 
whirling  snow,  puffing  at  a  black  cigar. 

"  Donnerwetter !  "  shouted  Lutz,  "  der  vinter,  he 
has  gome  back  again  yet !  " 

"Yer  a  liar,  Dutch,"  called  back  Mr.  McQuirk, 
with  friendly  geniality,  "  it's  springtime,  by  the 
watch." 

[156] 


THE  FOOL-KILLER 

DOWN  South  whenever  any  one  perpetrates  som/e 
particularly  monumental  piece  of  foolishness  every- 
body says :  "  Send  for  Jesse  Holmes." 

Jesse  Holmes  is  the  Fool-Killer.  Of  course  he  is  a 
myth,  like  Santa  Claus  and  Jack  Frost  and  General 
Prosperity  and  all  those  concrete  conceptions  that 
are  supposed  to  represent  an  idea  that  Nature  has 
failed  to  embody.  The  wisest  of  the  Southrons  can- 
not tell  you  whence  comes  the  Fool-Killer's  name; 
but  few  and  happy  are  the  households  from  the  Ro- 
anoke  to  the  Rio  Grande  in  which  the  name  of  Jesse 
Holmes  has  not  been  pronounced  or  invoked.  Always 
with  a  smile,  and  often  with  a  tear,  is  he  summoned 
to  his  official  duty.  A  busy  man  is  Jesse  Holmes. 

I  remember  the  clear  picture  of  him  that  hung  on 
the  walls  of  my  fancy  during  my  barefoot  days 
when  I  was  dodging  his  oft-threatened  devoirs.  To 
me  he  was  a  terrible  old  man,  in  gray  clothes,  with 
a  long,  ragged,  gray  beard,  and  reddish,  fierce  eyes. 
I  looked  to  see  him  come  stumping  up  the  road  in 
a  cloud  of  dust,  with  a  white  oak  staff  in  his  hand 
and  his  shoes  tied  with  leather  thongs.  I  may  yet 

But  this  is  a  story,  not  a  sequel. 
[157]  ' 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

I  have  taken  notice  with  regret,  that  few  stories 
worth  reading  have  been  written  that  did  not  con- 
tain drink  of  some  sort.  Down  go  the  fluids,  from 
Arizona  Dick's  three  fingers  of  red  pizen  to  the  in- 
efficacious Oolong  that  nerves  Lionel  Montressor  to 
repartee  in  the  "  Dotty  Dialogues."  So,  in  such  good 
company  I  may  introduce  an  absinthe  drip — one  ab- 
sinthe drip,  dripped  through  a  silver  dripper,  or- 
derly, opalescent,  cool,  green-eyed — deceptive. 

Kerner  was  a  fool.  Besides  that,  he  was  an  artist 
and  my  good  friend.  Now,  if  there  is  one  thing  on 
earth  utterly  despicable  to  another,  it  is  an  artist 
in  the  eyes  of  an  author  whose  story  he  has  illus- 
trated. Just  try  it  once.  Write  a  story  about  a  min- 
ing camp  in  Idaho.  Sell  it.  Spend  the  money,  and 
then,  six  months  later,  borrow  a  quarter  (or 
a  dime),  and  buy  the  magazine  containing  it. 
You  find  a  full-page  wash  drawing  of  your 
hero,  Black  Bill,  the  cowboy.  Somewhere  in  your 
story  you  employed  the  word  "  horse."  Aha !  the  art- 
ist has  grasped  the  idea.  Black  Bill  has  on  the  regula- 
tion trousers  of  the  M.  F.  H.  of  the  Westchester 
County  Hunt.  He  carries  a  parlor  rifle,  and  wears 
a  monocle.  In  the  distance  is  a  section  of  Forty-second 
Street  during  a  search  for  a  lost  gas-pipe,  and  the 
Taj  Mahal,  the  famous  mausoleum  in  India. 

Enough!  I  hated  Kerner,  and  one  day  I  met  him 
and  we  became  friends.  He  was  young  and  glori- 
[158] 


THE  FOOL-KILLER 

ously  melancholy  because  his  spirits  were  so  high 
and  life  had  so  much  in  store  for  him.  Yes,  he  was 
almost  riotously  sad.  That  was  his  youth.  When  a 
man  begins  to  be  hilarious  in  a  sorrowful  way  you 
can  bet  a  million  that  he  is  dyeing  his  hair.  Kerner's 
hair  was  plentiful  and  carefully  matted  as  an  artist's 
thatch  should  be.  He  was  a  cigaretteur,  and  he  au- 
dited his  dinners  with  red  wine.  But,  most  of  all,  he 
was  a  fool.  And,  wisely,  I  envied  him,  and  listened 
patiently  while  he  knocked  Velasquez  and  Tintoretto. 
Once  he  told  me  that  he  liked  a  story  of  mine  that 
he  had  come  across  in  an  anthology.  He  described 
it  to  me,  and  I  was  sorry  that  Mr.  Fitz-James 
O'Brien  was  dead  and  could  not  learn  of  the  eulogy 
of  his  work.  But  mostly  Kerner  made  few  breaks  and 
was  a  consistent  fool. 

I'd  better  explain  what  I  mean  by  that.  There 
was  a  girl.  Now,  a  girl,  as  far  as  I  am  concerned, 
is  a  thing  that  belongs  in  a  seminary  or  an  album; 
but  I  conceded  the  existence  of  the  animal  in  order 
to  retain  Kerner's  friendship.  He  showed  me  her  pic- 
ture in  a  locket — she  was  a  blonde  or  a  brunette — 
I  have  forgotten  which.  She  worked  in  a  factory  for 
eight  dollars  a  week.  Lest  factories  quote  this  wage 
by  way  of  vindication,  I  will  add  that  the  girl  had 
worked  for  five  years  to  reach  that  supreme  elevation 
of  remuneration,  beginning  at  $1.50  per  week. 

Kerner's  father  was  worth  a  couple  of  millions. 
[159] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

He  was  willing  to  stand  for  art,  but  he  drew  the 
line  at  the  factory  girl.  So  Kerner  disinherited  his 
father  and  walked  out  to  a  cheap  studio  and  lived 
on  sausages  for  breakfast  and  on  Farroni  for  dinner. 
Farroni  had  the  artistic  soul  and  a  line  of  credit  for 
painters  and  poets,  nicely  adjusted.  Sometimes  Ker- 
ner sold  a  picture  and  bought  some  new  tapestry, 
a  ring  and  a  dozen  silk  cravats,  and  paid  Farroni 
two  dollars  on  account. 

One  evening  Kerner  had  me  to  dinner  with  himself 
and  the  factory  girl.  They  were  to  be  married  as 
soon  as  Kerner  could  slosh  paint  profitably.  As  for 
the  ex-father's  two  millions — pouf ! 

She  was  a  wonder.  Small  and  half-way  pretty,  and 
as  much  at  her  ease  in  that  cheap  cafe  as  though  she 
were  only  in  the  Palmer  House,  Chicago,  with  a  sou- 
venir spoon  already  safely  hidden  in  her  shirt  waist. 
She  was  natural.  Two  things  I  noticed  about  her 
especially.  Her  belt  buckle  was  exactly  in  the  middle 
of  her  back,  and  she  didn't  tell  us  that  a  large  man 
with  a  ruby  stick-pin  had  followed  her  up  all  the  way 
from  Fourteenth  Street.  Was  Kerner  such  a  fool?  I 
wondered.  And  then  I  thought  of  the  quantity  of 
striped  cuffs  and  blue  glass  beads  that  $2,000,000 
can  buy  for  the  heathen,  and  I  said  to  myself  that  he 
was.  And  then  Elise — certainly  that  was  her  name — 
told  us,  merrily,  that  the  brown  spot  on  her  waist 
was  caused  by  her  landlady  knocking  at  the  door 
[160] 


THE  FOOL-KILLER 

while  she  (the  girl — confound  the  English  language) 
was  heating  an  iron  over  the  gas  jet,  and  she  hid  the 
iron  under  the  bedclothes  until  the  coast  was  clear, 
and  there  was  the  piece  of  chewing  gum  stuck  to  it 
when  she  began  to  iron  the  waist,  and — well,  I  won- 
dered how  in  the  world  the  chewing  gum  came  to  be 
there — don't  they  ever  stop  chewing  it? 

A  while  after  that — don't  be  impatient,  the  ab- 
sinthe drip  is  coming  now — Kerner  and  I  were  dining 
at  Farroni's.  A  mandolin  and  a  guitar  were  being  at- 
tacked ;  the  room  was  full  of  smoke  in  nice,  long 
crinkly  layers  just  like  the  artists  draw  the  steam 
from  a  plum  pudding  on  Christmas  posters,  and  a 
lady  in  a  blue  silk  and  gasolined  gauntlets  was  be- 
ginning to  hum  an  air  from  the  Catskills. 

"  Kerner,"  said  I,  "  you  are  a  fool." 

"  Of  course,"  said  Kerner,  "  I  wouldn't  let  her  go 
on  working.  Not  my  wife.  What's  the  use  to  wait? 
She's  willing.  I  sold  that  water  color  of  the  Palisades 
yesterday.  We  could  cook  on  a  two-burner  gas  stove. 
You  know  the  ragouts  I  can  throw  together?  Yes,  J 
think  we  will  marry  next  week." 

"  Kerner,"  said  I,  "  you  are  a  fool." 

"  Have  an  absinthe  drip  ?  "  said  Kerner,  grandly. 
"  To-night  you  are  the  guest  of  Art  in  paying  quan- 
tities, I  think  we  will  get  a  flat  with  a  bath." 

"  I  never  tried  one — I  mean  an  absinthe  drip," 
said  I. 

[161] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

The  waiter  brought  it  and  poured  the  water  slowly 
over  the  ice  in  the  dripper. 

"  It  looks  exactly  like  the  Mississippi  River  water 
in  the  big  bend  below  Natchez,"  said  I,  fascinated, 
gazing  at  the  be-muddled  drip. 

"  There  are  such  flats  for  eight  dollars  a  week," 
said  Kerner. 

"  You  are  a  fool,"  said  I,  and  began  to  sip  the 
filtration.  "  What  you  need,"  I  continued,  "  is  the 
official  attention  of  one  Jesse  Holmes." 

Kerner,  not  being  a  Southerner,  did  not  compre- 
hend, so  he  sat,  sentimental,  figuring  on  his  flat  in 
his  sordid,  artistic  way,  while  I  gazed  into  the  green 
eyes  of  the  sophisticated  Spirit  of  Wormwood. 

Presently  I  noticed  casually  that  a  procession  of 
bacchantes  limned  on  the  wall  immediately  below  the 
ceiling  had  begun  to  move,  traversing  the  room  from 
right  to  left  in  a  gay  and  spectacular  pilgrimage.  I 
did  not  confide  my  discovery  to  Kerner.  The  artistic 
temperament  is  too  high-strung  to  view  such  devia- 
tions from  the  natural  laws  of  the  art  of  kalsomining. 
I  sipped  my  absinthe  drip  and  sawed  wormwood. 

One  absinthe  drip  is  not  much — but  I  said  again  to 
Kerner,  kindly : 

"  You  are  a  fool."  And  then,  in  the  vernacular : 
"  Jesse  Holmes  for  yours." 

And  then  I  looked  around  and  saw  the  Fool-Killer, 
as  he  had  always  appeared  to  my  imagination,  sitting 
[162] 


THE  FOOL-KILLER 

at  a  nearby  table,  and  regarding  us  with  his  reddish, 
fatal,  relentless  eyes.  He  was  Jesse  Holmes  from  top 
to  toe;  he  had  the  long,  gray,  ragged  beard,  the 
gray  clothes  of  ancient  cut,  the  executioner's  look, 
and  the  dusty  shoes  of  one  who  had  been  called  from 
afar.  His  eyes  were  turned  fixedly  upon  Kerner.  I 
shuddered  to  think  that  I  had  invoked  him  from  his 
assiduous  southern  duties.  I  thought  of  flying,  and 
then  I  kept  my  seat,  reflecting  that  many  men  had  es- 
caped his  ministrations  when  it  seemed  that  nothing 
short  of  an  appointment  as  Ambassador  to  Spain 
could  save  them  from  him.  I  had  called  my  brother 
Kerner  a  fool  and  was  in  danger  of  hell  fire.  That  was 
nothing;  but  I  would  try  to  save  him  from  Jesse 
Holmes. 

The  Fool-Killer  got  up  from  his  table  and  came 
over  to  ours.  He  rested  his  hands  upon  it,  and 
turned  his  burning,  vindictive  eyes  upon  Kerner, 
ignoring  me. 

"  You  are  a  hopeless  fool,"  he  said  to  the  artist. 
"  Haven't  you  had  enough  of  starvation  yet?  I  offer 
you  one  more  opportunity.  Give  up  this  girl  and  come 
back  to  your  home.  Refuse,  and  you  must  take  the 
consequences." 

The  Fool-Killer's  threatening  face  was  within  a 
foot  of  his  victim's;  but  to  my  horror,  Kerner  made 
not  the  slightest  sign  of  being  aware  of  his  presence. 

"  We  will  be  married  next  week,"  he  muttered  ab- 
[163] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

sent-mindedly.  "  With  my  studio  furniture  and  some 
second-hand  stuff  we  can  make  out." 

"  You  have  decided  your  own  fate,"  said  the  Fool- 
Killer,  in  a  low  but  terrible  voice.  "  You  may  con- 
sider yourself  as  one  dead.  You  have  had  your  last 
chance." 

"  In  the  moonlight,"  went  on  Kerner,  softly,  "  we 
will  sit  under  the  skylight  with  our  guitar  and  sing 
away  the  false  delights  of  pride  and  money." 

"  On  your  own  head  be  it,"  hissed  the  Fool-Killer, 
and  my  scalp  prickled  when  I  perceived  that  neither 
Kerner's  eyes  nor  his  ears  took  the  slightest  cog- 
nizance of  Jesse  Holmes.  And  then  I  knew  that  for 
some  reason  the  veil  had  been  lifted  for  me  alone,  and 
that  I  had  been  elected  to  save  my  friend  from 
destruction  at  the  Fool-Killer's  hands.  Something  of 
the  fear  and  wonder  of  it  must  have  showed  itself  in 
my  face. 

"  Excuse  me,"  said  Kerner,  with  his  wan,  amiable 
smile ;  "  was  I  talking  to  myself  ?  I  think  it  is  getting 
to  be  a  habit  with  me." 

The  Fool-Killer  turned  and  walked  out  of  Far- 
roni's. 

"  Wait  here  for  me,"  said  I,  rising ;  "  I  must  speak 
to  that  man.  Had  you  no  answer  for  him?  Because 
you  are  a  fool  must  you  die  like  a  mouse  under  his 
foot?  Could  you  not  utter  one  squeak  in  your  own 
defence?" 

[164] 


THE  FOOL-KILLER 

"  You  are  drunk,"  said  Kerner,  heartlessly.  "  No 
one  addressed  me." 

"  The  destroyer  of  your  kind,"  said  I,  "  stood  above 
you  just  now  and  marked  you  for  his  victim.  You  are 
not  blind  or  deaf." 

"  I  recognized  no  such  person,"  said  Kerner.  "  I 
have  seen  no  one  but  you  at  this  table.  Sit  down.  Here- 
after you  shall  have  no  more  absinthe  drips." 

"  Wait  here,"  said  I,  furious ;  "  if  you  don't  care 
for  your  own  life,  I  will  save  it  for  you." 

I  hurried  out  and  overtook  the  man  in  gray  half- 
way down  the  block.  He  looked  as  I  had  seen  him  in 
my  fancy  a  thousand  times — truculent,  gray  and 
awful.  He  walked  with  the  white  oak  staff,  and  but  for 
the  street-sprinkler  the  dust  would  have  been  flying 
under  his  tread. 

I  caught  him  by  the  sleeve  and  steered  him  to  a 
dark  angle  of  a  building.  I  knew  he  was  a  myth,  and  I 
did  not  want  a  cop  to  see  me  conversing  with  vacancy, 
for  I  might  land  in  Bellevue  minus  my  silver  match- 
box and  diamond  ring. 

"  Jesse  Holmes,"  said  I,  facing  him  with  apparent 
bravery,  "  I  know  you.  I  have  heard  of  you  all  my  life. 
I  know  now  what  a  scourge  you  have  been  to  your 
country.  Instead  of  killing  fools  you  have  been  mur- 
dering the  youth  and  genius  that  are  necessary  to 
make  a  people  live  and  grow  great.  You  are  a  fool 
yourself,  Holmes ;  you  began  killing  off  the  brightest 
[165] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

and  best  of  your  countrymen  three  generations  agos 
when  the  old  and  obsolete  standards  of  society  and 
honor  and  orthodoxy  were  narrow  and  bigoted.  You 
proved  that  when  you  put  your  murderous  mark  upon 
my  friend  Kerner — the  wisest  chap  I  ever  knew  in 
my  life." 

The  Fool-Killer  looked  at  me  grimly  and  closely. 

"  You've  a  queer  jag,"  said  he,  curiously.  "  Oh, 
yes ;  I  see  who  you  are  now.  You  were  sitting  with 
him  at  the  table.  Well,  if  I'm  not  mistaken,  I  heard 
you  call  him  a  fool,  too." 

"  I  did,"  said  I.  "  I  delight  in  doing  so.  It  is  from 
envy.  By  all  the  standards  that  you  know  he  is  the 
most  egregious  and  grandiloquent  and  gorgeous  fool 
in  all  the  world.  That's  why  you  want  to  kill  him." 

"  Would  you  mind  telling  me  who  or  what  you  think 
I  am?  "  asked  the  old  man. 

I  laughed  boisterously  and  then  stopped  suddenly, 
for  I  remembered  that  it  would  not  do  to  be  seen  so 
hilarious  in  the  company  of  nothing  but  a  brick  wall. 

"  You  are  Jesse  Holmes,  the  Fool-Killer,"  I  said,  sol- 
emnly, "  and  you  are  going  to  kill  my  friend  Kerner. 
I  don't  know  who  rang  you  up,  but  if  you  do  kill  him 
I'll  see  that  you  get  pinched  for  it.  That  is,"  I  added, 
despairingly, "  if  I  can  get  a  cop  to  see  you.  They  have 
a  poor  eye  for  mortals,  and  I  think  it  would  take  the 
whole  force  to  round  up  a  myth  murderer." 

"  Well,"  said  the  Fool-Killer,  briskly,  "  I  must  be 
[166] 


THE  FOOL-KILLEB 

going.  You  had  better  go  home  and  sleep  it  off.  Good- 
night." 

At  this  I  was  moved  by  a  sudden  fear  for  Kerner  to 
a  softer  and  more  pleading  mood.  I  leaned  against  the 
gray  man's  sleeve  and  besought  him : 

"Good  Mr.  Fool-Killer,  please  don't  kill  little 
Kerner.  Why  can't  you  go  back  South  and  kill  Con- 
gressmen and  clay-eaters  and  let  us  alone  ?  Why  don't 
you  go  up  on  Fifth  Avenue  and  kill  millionaires  that 
keep  their  money  locked  up  and  won't  let  young  fools 
marry  because  one  of  'em  lives  on  the  wrong  street? 
Come  and  have  a  drink,  Jesse.  Will  you  never  get  on 
to  your  job?  " 

"  Do  you  know  this  girl  that  your  friend  has  made 
himself  a  fool  about?"  asked  the  Fool-Killer. 

"  I  have  the  honor,"  said  I,  "  and  that's  why  I 
called  Kerner  a  fool.  He  is  a  fool  because  he  has 
waited  so  long  before  marrying  her.  He  is  a  fool  be- 
cause he  has  been  waiting  in  the  hopes  of  getting  the 
consent  of  some  absurd  two-million-dollar-fool  parent 
or  something  of  the  sort." 

"Maybe,"  said  the  Fool-Killer  —  «  maybe  I— -I 
might  have  looked  at  it  differently.  Would  you  mind 
going  back  to  the  restaurant  and  bringing  your 
friend  Kerner  here?  " 

"  Oh,  what's  the  use,  Jesse,"  I  yawned.  "  He  can't 
see  you.  He  didn't  know  you  were  talking  to  him  at 
the  table.  You  are  a  fictitious  character,  you  know." 
[167] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

"  Maybe  he  can  this  time.  Will  you  go  fetch  him  ?  " 

"All  right,"  said  I,  "but  I've  a  suspicion  that 
you're  not  strictly  sober,  Jesse.  You  seem  to  be  wa- 
vering and  losing  your  outlines.  Don't  vanish  before 
I  get  back." 

I  went  back  to  Kerner  and  said : 

"  There's  a  man  with  an  invisible  homicidal  mania 
waiting  to  see  you  outside.  I  believe  he  wants  to  mur- 
der you.  Come  along.  You  won't  see  him,  so  there's 
nothing  to  be  frightened  about." 

Kerner  looked  anxious. 

"  Why,"  said  he,  "  I  had  no  idea  one  absinthe  would 
do  that.  You'd  better  stick  to  Wtirzburger.  I'll  walk 
home  with  you." 

I  led  him  to  Jesse  Holmes's. 

"  Rudolf,"  said  the  Fool-Killer,  "  I'll  give  in.  Bring 
her  up  to  the  house.  Give  me  your  hand,  boy." 

"  Good  for  you,  dad,"  said  Kerner,  shaking  hands 
with  the  old  man.  "  You'll  never  regret  it  after  you 
know  her." 

"  So,  you  did  see  him  when  he  was  talking  to  you 
at  the  table?"  I  asked  Kerner. 

"  We  hadn't  spoken  to  each  other  in  a  year,"  said 
Kerner.  "  It's  all  right  now." 

I  walked  away. 

"  Where  are  you  going?  "  called  Kerner. 

"  I  am  going  to  look  for  Jesse  Holmes,"   I  an- 
swered, with  dignity  and  reserve. 
[168] 


TRANSIENTS  IN  ARCADIA 

THERE  is  a  hotel  on  Broadway  that  has  escaped 
discovery  by  the  summer-resort  promoters.  It  is  deep 
and  wide  and  cool.  Its  rooms  are  finished  in  dark  oak 
of  a  low  temperature.  Home-made  breezes  and  deep- 
green  shrubbery  give  it  the  delights  without  the  incon- 
veniences of  the  Adirondacks.  One  can  mount  its 
broad  staircases  or  glide  dreamily  upward  in  its 
aerial  elevators,  attended  by  guides  in  brass  buttons, 
with  a  serene  joy  that  Alpine  climbers  have  never  at- 
tained. There  is  a  chef  in  its  kitchen  who  will  prepare 
for  you  brook  trout  better  than  the  White  Mountains 
ever  served,  sea  food  that  would  turn  Old  Point  Com- 
fort— "  by  Gad,  sah !  " — green  with  envy,  and  Maine 
venison  that  would  melt  the  official  heart  of  a  game 
warden. 

A  few  have  found  out  this  oasis  in  the  July  desert 
of  Manhattan.  During  that  month  you  will  see  the 
hotel's  reduced  array  of  guests  scattered  luxuriously 
about  in  the  cool  twilight  of  its  lofty  dining-room, 
gazing  at  one  another  across  the  snowy  waste  of  un- 
occupied tables,  silently  congratulatory. 

Superfluous,  watchful,  pneumatically  moving  wait- 
[169] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

ers  hover  near,  supplying  every  want  before  it  is  ex- 
pressed. The  temperature  is  perpetual  April.  The  ceil- 
ing is  painted  in  water  colors  to  counterfeit  a  summer 
sky  across  which  delicate  clouds  drift  and  do  not  van- 
ish as  those  of  nature  do  to  our  regret. 

The  pleasing,  distant  roar  of  Broadway  is  trans- 
formed in  the  imagination  of  the  happy  guests  to  the 
noise  of  a  waterfall  filling  the  woods  with  its  restful 
sound.  At  every  strange  footstep  the  guests  turn  an 
anxious  ear,  fearful  lest  their  retreat  be  discovered 
and  invaded  by  the  restless  pleasure-seekers  who  are 
forever  hounding  nature  to  her  deepest  lairs. 

Thus  in  the  depopulated  caravansary  the  little 
band  of  connoisseurs  jealously  hide  themselves  during 
the  heated  season,  enjoying  to  the  uttermost  the  de- 
lights of  mountain  and  seashore  that  art  and  skill 
have  gathered  and  served  to  them. 

In  this  July  came  to  the  hotel  one  whose  card  that 
she  sent  to  the  clerk  for  her  name  to  be  registered 
read  "  Mme.  Heloise  D'Arcy  Beaumont." 

Madame  Beaumont  was  a  guest  such  as  the  Hotel 
Lotus  loved.  She  possessed  the  fine  air  of  the  elite, 
tempered  and  sweetened  by  a  cordial  graciousness 
that  made  the  hotel  employes  her  slaves.  Bell-boys 
fought  for  the  honor  of  answering  her  ring;  the 
clerks,  but  for  the  question  of  ownership,  would  have 
deeded  to  her  the  hotel  and  its  contents;  the  other 
guests  regarded  her  as  the  final  touch  of  feminine 
[170] 


TRANSIENTS  IN  ARCADIA 

exclusiveness  and  beauty  that  rendered  the  entourage 
perfect. 

This  super-excellent  guest  rarely  left  the  hotel.  Her 
habits  were  consonant  with  the  customs  of  the  discrim- 
inating patrons  of  the  Hotel  Lotus.  To  enjoy  that  de- 
lectable hostelry  one  must  forego  the  city  as  though  it 
were  leagues  away.  By  night  a  brief  excursion  to  the 
nearby  roofs  is  in  order;  but  during  the  torrid  day 
one  remains  in  the  umbrageous  fastnesses  of  the  Lotus 
as  a  trout  hangs  poised  in  the  pellucid  sanctuaries  of 
his  favorite  pool. 

Though  alone  in  the  Hotel  Lotus,  Madame  Beau- 
mont preserved  the  state  of  a  queen  whose  loneliness 
was  of  position  only.  She  breakfasted  at  ten,  a  cool, 
sweet,  leisurely,  delicate  being  who  glowed  softly  in 
the  dimness  like  a  j  asmine  flower  in  the  dusk. 

But  at  dinner  was  Madame's  glory  at  its  height. 
She  wore  a  gown  as  beautiful  and  immaterial  as  the 
mist  from  an  unseen  cataract  in  a  mountain  gorge. 
The  nomenclature  of  this  gown  is  beyond  the  guess 
of  the  scribe.  Always  pale-red  roses  reposed  against 
its  lace-garnished  front.  It  was  a  gown  that  the  head- 
waiter  viewed  with  respect  and  met  at  the  door.  You 
thought  of  Paris  when  you  saw  it,  and  maybe  of  mys- 
terious countesses,  and  certainly  of  Versailles  and 
rapiers  and  Mrs.  Fiske  and  rouge-et-noir.  There  was 
an  untraceable  rumor  in  the  Hotel  Lotus  that  Madame 
was  a  cosmopolite,  and  that  she  was  pulling  with  her 
[171] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

slender  white  hands  certain  strings  between  the  na- 
tions in  the  favor  of  Russia.  Being  a  citizeness  of  the 
world's  smoothest  roads  it  was  small  wonder  that  she 
was  quick  to  recognize  in  the  refined  purlieus  of  the 
Hotel  Lotus  the  most  desirable  spot  in  America  for  a 
restful  sojourn  during  the  heat  of  midsummer. 

On  the  third  day  of  Madame  Beaumont's  residence 
in  the  hotel  a  young  man  entered  and  registered  him- 
self as  a  guest.  His  clothing — to  speak  of  his  points 
in  approved  order — was  quietly  in  the  mode ;  his  fea- 
tures good  and  regular;  his  expression  that  of  a 
poised  and  sophisticated  man  of  the  world.  He  in- 
formed the  clerk  that  he  would  remain  three  or  four 
days,  inquired  concerning  the  sailing  of  European 
steamships,  and  sank  into  the  blissful  inanition  of  the 
nonpareil  hotel  with  the  contented  air  of  a  traveller  in 
his  favorite  inn. 

The  young  man — not  to  question  the  veracity  of 
the  register — was  Harold  Farrington.  He  drifted 
into  the  exclusive  and  calm  current  of  life  in  the  Lotus 
so  tactfully  and  silently  that  not  a  ripple  alarmed  his 
fellow-seekers  after  rest.  He  ate  in  the  Lotus  and  of 
its  patronym,  and  was  lulled  into  blissful  peace  with 
the  other  fortunate  mariners.  In  one  day  he  acquired 
his  table  and  his  waiter  and  the  fear  lest  the  panting 
chasers  after  repose  that  kept  Broadway  warm  should 
pounce  upon  and  destroy  this  contiguous  but  covert 
haven. 

[172] 


TRANSIENTS  IN  ARCADIA 

After  dinner  on  the  next  day  after  the  arrival  of 
Harold  Farrington  Madame  Beaumont  dropped  her 
handkerchief  in  passing  out.  Mr.  Farrington  recov- 
ered and  returned  it  without  the  effusiveness  of  a 
seeker  after  acquaintance. 

Perhaps  there  was  a  mystic  freemasonry  between 
the  discriminating  guests  of  the  Lotus.  Perhaps  they 
were  drawn  one  to  another  by  the  fact  of  their  com- 
mon good  fortune  in  discovering  the  acme  of  summer 
resorts  in  a  Broadway  hotel.  Words  delicate  in  cour- 
tesy and  tentative  in  departure  from  formality 
passed  between  the  two.  And,  as  if  in  the  expedient 
atmosphere  of  a  real  summer  resort,  an  acquaintance 
grew,  flowered  and  fructified  on  the  spot  as  does  the 
mystic  plant  of  the  conjuror.  For  a  few  moments 
they  stood  on  a  balcony  upon  which  the  corridor 
ended,  and  tossed  the  feathery  ball  of  conversation. 

"  One  tires  of  the  old  resorts,"  said  Madame  Beau- 
mont, with  a  faint  but  sweet  smile.  "  What  is  the  use 
to  fly  to  the  mountains  or  the  seashore  to  escape  noise 
and  dust  when  the  very  people  that  make  both  follow 
us  there  ?  " 

"  Even  on  the  ocean,"  remarked  Farrington,  sadly, 
"  the  Philistines  be  upon  you.  The  most  exclusive 
steamers  are  getting  to  be  scarcely  more  than  ferry 
boats.  Heaven  help  us  when  the  summer  resorter  dis- 
covers that  the  Lotus  is  further  away  from  Broadway 
than  Thousand  Islands  or  Mackinac." 
[173] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

"  I  hope  our  secret  will  be  safe  for  a  week,  any- 
how," said  Madame,  with  a  sigh  and  a  smile.  "  I  do 
not  know  where  I  would  go  if  they  should  descend 
upon  the  dear  Lotus.  I  know  of  but  one  place  so  de- 
lightful in  summer,  and  that  is  the  castle  of  Count 
Polinski,  in  the  Ural  Mountains." 

"  I  hear  that  Baden-Baden  and  Cannes  are 
almost  deserted  this  season,"  said  Farrington. 
"  Year  by  year  the  old  resorts  fall  into  disrepute. 
Perhaps  many  others,  like  ourselves,  are  seeking 
out  the  quiet  nooks  that  are  overlooked  by  the 
majority." 

"  I  promise  myself  three  days  more  of  this  delicious 
rest,"  said  Madame  Beaumont.  "  On  Monday  the 
Cedric  sails." 

Harold  Farrington's  eyes  proclaimed  his  regret. 
"  I  too  must  leave  on  Monday,"  he  said,  "  but  I  do 
not  go  abroad." 

Madame  Beaumont  shrugged  one  round  shoulder  in 
a  foreign  gesture. 

"  One  cannot  hide  here  forever,  charming  though  it 
may  be.  The  chateau  has  been  in  preparation  for  me 
longer  than  a  month.  Those  house  parties  that  one 
must  give — what  a  nuisance !  But  I  shall  never  forget 
my  week  in  the  Hotel  Lotus." 

"  Nor  shall  I,"  said  Farrington  in  a  low  voice, 
"  and  I  shall  never  forgive  the  Cedric." 

On  Sunday  evening,  three  days  afterward,  the  two 
[174] 


TRANSIENTS  IN  ARCADIA 

sat  at  a  little  table  on  the  same  balcony.  A  discreet 
waiter  brought  ices  and  small  glasses  of  claret  cup. 

Madame  Beaumont  wore  the  same  beautiful  even- 
ing gown  that  she  had  worn  each  day  at  dinner.  She 
seemed  thoughtful.  Near  her  hand  on  the  table  lay  a 
small  chatelaine  purse.  After  she  had  eaten  her  ice  she 
opened  the  purse  and  took  out  a  one-dollar  bill. 

"  Mr.  Farrington,"  she  said,  with  the  smile  that 
had  won  the  Hotel  Lotus,  "  I  want  to  tell  you  some- 
thing. I'm  going  to  leave  before  breakfast  in  the 
morning,  because  I've  got  to  go  back  to  my  work.  I'm 
behind  the  hosiery  counter  at  Casey's  Mammoth 
Store,  and  my  vacation's  up  at  eight  o'clock  to- 
morrow. That  paper  dollar  is  the  last  cent  I'll  see  till 
I  draw  my  eight  dollars  salary  next  Saturday  night. 
You're  a  real  gentleman,  and  you've  been  good  to  me, 
and  I  wanted  to  tell  you  before  I  went. 

"  I've  been  saving  up  out  of  my  wages  for  a  year 
just  for  this  vacation.  I  wanted  to  spend  one  week 
like  a  lady  if  I  never  do  another  one.  I  wanted  to  get 
up  when  I  please  instead  of  having  to  crawl  out  at 
seven  every  morning ;  and  I  wanted  to  live  on  the  best 
and  be  waited  on  and  ring  bells  for  things  just  like 
rich  folks  do.  Now  I've  done  it,  and  I've  had  the  hap- 
piest time  I  ever  expect  to  have  in  my  life.  I'm  going 
back  to  my  work  and  my  little  hall  bedroom  satisfied 
for  another  year.  I  wanted  to  tell  you  about  it,  Mr. 
Farrington,  because  I — I  thought  you  kind  of  liked 
[175] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

me,  and  I — I  liked  you.  But,  oh,  I  couldn't  help  de- 
ceiving you  up  till  now,  for  it  was  all  j  ust  like  a  fairy 
tale  to  me.  So  I  talked  about  Europe  and  the  things 
I've  read  about  in  other  countries,  and  made  you  think 
I  was  a  great  lady. 

"  This  dress  I've  got  on — it's  the  only  one  I  have 
that's  fit  to  wear — I  bought  from  O'Dowd  &  Levinsky 
on  the  instalment  plan. 

"  Seventy-five  dollars  is  the  price,  and  it  was  made 
to  measure.  I  paid  $10  down,  and  they're  to  collect  $1 
a  week  till  it's  paid  for.  That'll  be  about  all  I  have 
to  say,  Mr.  Farrington,  except  that  my  name  is 
Mamie  Siviter  instead  of  Madame  Beaumont,  and  I 
thank  you  for  your  attentions.  This  dollar  will  pay 
the  instalment  due  on  the  dress  to-morrow.  I  guess  I'll 
go  up  to  my  room  now." 

Harold  Farrington  listened  to  the  recital  of  the 
Lotus's  loveliest  guest  with  an  impassive  countenance. 
When  she  had  concluded  he  drew  a  small  book  like  a 
checkbook  from  his  coat  pocket.  He  wrote  upon  a 
blank  form  in  this  with  a  stub  of  pencil,  tore  out  the 
leaf,  tossed  it  over  to  his  companion  and  took  up  the 
paper  dollar. 

"  I've  got  to  go  to  work,  too,  in  the  morning,"  he 
said,  "  and  I  might  as  well  begin  now.  There's  a 
receipt  for  the  dollar  instalment.  I've  been  a  collector 
for  O'Dowd  &  Levinsky  for  three  years.  Funny,  ain't 
it,  that  you  and  me  both  had  the  same  idea  about 
[176] 


TRANSIENTS  IN  ARCADIA 

spending  our  vacation?  I've  always  wanted  to  put  up 
at  a  swell  hotel,  and  I  saved  up  out  of  my  twenty  per., 
and  did  it.  Say,  Mame,  how  about  a  trip  to  Coney 
Saturday  night  on  the  boat — what?  " 

The  face  of  the  pseudo  Madame  Heloise  D'Arcy 
Beaumont  beamed. 

"  Oh,  you  bet  I'll  go,  Mr.  Farrington.  The  store 
closes  at  twelve  on  Saturdays.  I  guess  Coney'll  be  all 
right  even  if  we  did  spend  a  week  with  the  swells." 

Below  the  balcony  the  sweltering  city  growled  and 
buzzed  in  the  July  night.  Inside  the  Hotel  Lotus  the 
tempered,  cool  shadows  reigned,  and  the  solicitous 
waiter  single-footed  near  the  low  windows,  ready  at 
a  nod  to  serve  Madame  and  her  escort. 

At  the  door  of  the  elevator  Farrington  took  his 
leave,  and  Madame  Beaumont  made  her  last  ascent. 
But  before  they  reached  the  noiseless  cage  he  said: 
"  Just  forget  that  '  Harold  Farrington,'  will  you? 
— McManus  is  the  name — James  McManus.  Some  call 
me  Jimmy." 

"  Good-night,  Jimmy,"  said  Madame. 


[177] 


THE  RATHSKELLER  AND  THE  ROSE 

MlSS  POSIE  CARRINGTON  had  earned  her  suc- 
cess. She  began  life  handicapped  by  the  family  name 
of  "  Boggs,"  in  the  small  town  known  as  Cranberry 
Corners.  At  the  age  of  eighteen  she  had  acquired 
the  name  of  "  Carrington  "  and  a  position  in  the 
chorus  of  a  metropolitan  burlesque  company.  Thence 
upward  she  had  ascended  by  the  legitimate  and  de- 
lectable steps  of  "  broiler,"  member  of  the  famous 
"  Dickey-bird "  octette,  in  the  successful  musical 
comedy,  "  Fudge  and  Fellows,"  leader  of  the  potato- 
bug  dance  in  "  Fol-de-Rol,"  and  at  length  to  the  part 
of  the  maid  "  'Toinette "  in  "The  King's  Bath- 
Robe,"  which  captured  the  critics  and  gave  her  her 
chance.  And  when  we  come  to  consider  Miss  Carring- 
ton she  is  in  the  heydey  of  flattery,  fame  and  fizz ;  and 
that  astute  manager,  Herr  Timothy  Goldstein,  has 
her  signature  to  iron-clad  papers  that  she  will  star 
the  coming  season  in  Dyde  Rich's  new  play,  "  Paresis 
by  Gaslight." 

Promptly  there  came  to  Herr  Timothy  a  capable 
twentieth-century  young  character  actor  by  the  name 
of  Highsmith,  who   besought  engagement   as   "  Sol 
[178] 


THE  RATHSKELLER  AND  THE  ROSE 

Haytosser,"  the  comic  and  chief  male  character  part 
in  "  Paresis  by  Gaslight." 

"  My  boy,"  said  Goldstein,  "  take  the  part  if  you 
can  get  it.  Miss  Carrington  won't  listen  to  any  of 
my  suggestions.  She  has  turned  down  half  a  dozen 
of  the  best  imitators  of  the  rural  dub  in  the  city. 
She  declares  she  won't  set  a  foot  on  the  stage  un- 
less '  Haytosser '  is  the  best  that  can  be  raked  up. 
She  was  raised  in  a  village,  you  know,  and  when  a 
Broadway  orchid  sticks  a  straw  in  his  hair  and  tries 
to  call  himself  a  clover  blossom  she's  on,  all  right. 
I  asked  her,  in  a  sarcastic  vein,  if  she  thought  Den- 
man  Thompson  would  make  any  kind  of  a  show  in 
the  part.  '  Oh,  no,'  says  she.  '  I  don't  want  him  or 
John  Drew  or  Jim  Corbett  or  any  of  these  swell 
actors  that  don't  know  a  turnip  from  a  turnstile. 
I  want  the  real  article.'  So,  my  boy,  if  you  want  to 
play  '  Sol  Haytosser  '  you  will  have  to  convince  Miss 
Carrington.  Luck  be  with  you." 

Highsmith  took  the  train  the  next  day  for  Cran- 
berry Corners.  He  remained  in  that  forsaken  and 
inanimate  village  three  days.  He  found  the  Boggs 
family  and  corkscrewed  their  history  unto  the  third 
and  fourth  generation.  He  amassed  the  facts  and  the 
local  color  of  Cranberry  Corners.  The  village  had 
not  grown  as  rapidly  as  had  Miss  Carrington.  The 
actor  estimated  that  it  had  suffered  as  few  actual 
changes  since  the  departure  of  its  solitary  follower 
[179] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

of  Thespis  as  had  a  stage  upon  which  "  four  years 
is  supposed  to  have  elapsed."  He  absorbed  Cran- 
berry Corners  and  returned  to  the  city  of  chameleon 
changes. 

It  was  in  the  rathskeller  that  Highsmith  made  the 
hit  of  his  histrionic  career.  There  is  no  need  to 
name  the  place;  there  is  but  one  rathskeller  where 
you  could  hope  to  find  Miss  Posie  Carrington  after  a 
performance  of  "  The  King's  Bath-Robe." 

There  was  a  jolly  small  party  at  one  of  the  tables 
that  drew  many  eyes.  Miss  Carrington,  petite,  mar- 
vellous, bubbling,  electric,  fame-drunken,  shall  be 
named  first.  Herr  Goldstein  follows,  sonorous,  curly- 
haired,  heavy,  a  trifle  anxious,  as  some  bear  that 
had  caught,  somehow,  a  butterfly  in  his  claws.  Next, 
a  man  condemned  to  a  newspaper,  sad,  courted, 
armed,  analyzing  for  press  agent's  dross  every  sen- 
tence that  was  poured  over  him,  eating  his  a  la  New- 
burg  in  the  silence  of  greatness.  To  conclude,  a  youth 
with  parted  hair,  a  name  that  is  ochre  to  red  jour- 
nals and  gold  on  the  back  of  a  supper  check.  These 
sat  at  a  table  while  the  musicians  played,  while  waiters 
moved  in  the  mazy  performance  of  their  duties  with 
their  backs  toward  all  who  desired  their  service,  and 
all  was  bizarre  and  merry  because  it  was  nine  feet 
below  the  level  of  the  sidewalk. 

At  11.45  a  being  entered  the  rathskeller.  The  first 
violin  perceptibly  flatted  a  C  that  should  have  been 
[180] 


THE  RATHSKELLER  AND  THE  ROSE 

natural ;  the  clarionet  blew  a  bubble  instead  of  a  grace 
note;  Miss  Carrington  giggled  and  the  youth  with 
parted  hair  swallowed  an  olive  seed. 

Exquisitely  and  irreproachably  rural  was  the  new 
entry.  A  lank,  disconcerted,  hesitating  young  man 
it  was,  flaxen-haired,  gaping  of  mouth,  awkward, 
stricken  to  misery  by  the  lights  and  company.  His 
clothing  was  butternut,  with  bright  blue  tie,  showing 
four  inches  of  bony  wrist  and  white-socked  ankle. 
He  upset  a  chair,  sat  in  another  one,  curled  a  foot 
around  a  table  leg  and  cringed  at  the  approach  of 
a  waiter. 

"  You  may  fetch  me  a  glass  of  lager  beer,"  he 
said,  in  response  to  the  discreet  questioning  of  the 
servitor. 

The  eyes  of  the  rathskeller  were  upon  him.  He  was 
as  fresh  as  a  collard  and  as  ingenuous  as  a  hay 
rake.  He  let  his  eye  rove  about  the  place  as  one  who 
regards,  big-eyed,  hogs  in  the  potato  patch.  His  gaze 
rested  at  length  upon  Miss  Carrington.  He  rose  and 
went  to  her  table  with  a  lateral,  shining  smile  and 
a  blush  of  pleased  trepidation. 

"  How're  ye,  Miss  Posie?  "  he  said  in  accents  not  to 
be  doubted.  "  Don't  ye  remember  me — Bill  Summers 
— the  Summerses  that  lived  back  of  the  blacksmith 
shop?  I  reckon  I've  growed  up  some  since  ye  left 
Cranberry  Corners. 

"  'Liza  Perry  'lowed  I  might  see  ye  in  the  'city 
[181] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

while  I  was  here.  You  know  'Liza  married  Benny 
Stanfield,  and  she  says — 

"  Ah,  say !  "  interrupted  Miss  Carrington,  brightly, 
"  Lize  Perry  is  never  married — what !  Oh,  the  freckles 
of  her ! " 

"  Married  in  June,"  grinned  the  gossip,  "  and  livin' 
in  the  old  Tatum  Place.  Ham  Riley  perfessed  reli- 
gion; old  Mrs.  Blithers  sold  her  place  to  Cap'n 
Spooner;  the  youngest  Waters  girl  run  away  with  a 
music  teacher;  the  court-house  burned  up  last 
March ;  your  uncle  Wiley  was  elected  constable ; 
Matilda  Hoskins  died  from  runnin'  a  needle  in  her 
hand,  and  Tom  Beedle  is  courtin'  Sallie  Lathrop — 
they  say  he  don't  miss  a  night  but  what  he's  settin' 
on  their  porch." 

"  The  wall-eyed  thing !  "  exclaimed  Miss  Carring- 
ton, with  asperity.  "  Why,  Tom  Beedle  once — say, 
you  folks,  excuse  me  a  while — this  is  an  old  friend  of 
mine — Mr. — what  was  it?  Yes,  Mr.  Summers — Mr. 

Goldstein,  Mr.  Ricketts,  Mr. Oh,  what's  yours? 

'  Johnny '  '11  do — come  on  over  here  and  teh1  me  some 
more." 

She  swept  him  to  an  isolated  table  in  a  corner. 
Herr  Goldstein  shrugged  his  fat  shoulders  and 
beckoned  to  the  waiter.  The  newspaper  man  bright- 
ened a  little  and  mentioned  absinthe.  The  youth  with 
parted  hair  was  plunged  into  melancholy.  The  guests 
of  the  rathskeller  laughed,  clinked  glasses  and  enjoyed 
[182] 


THE  RATHSKELLER  AND  THE  ROSE 

the  comedy  that  Posie  Carrington  was  treating  them 
to  after  her  regular  performance.  A  few  cynical  ones 
whispered  "  press  agent  "  and  smiled  wisely. 

Posie  Carrington  laid  her  dimpled  and  desirable 
chin  upon  her  hands,  and  forgot  her  audience — a 
faculty  that  had  won  her  laurels  for  her. 

"  I  don't  seem  to  recollect  any  Bill  Summers,"  she 
said,  thoughtfully  gazing  straight  into  the  innocent 
blue  eyes  of  the  rustic  young  man.  "  But  I  know  the 
Summerses,  all  right.  I  guess  there  ain't  many 
changes  in  the  old  town.  You  see  any  of  my  folks 
lately?" 

And  then  Highsmith  played  his  trump.  The  part 
of  "  Sol  Haytosser "  called  for  pathos  as  well  as 
comedy.  Miss  Carrington  should  see  that  he  could 
do  that  as  well. 

"  Miss  Posie,"  said  "  Bill  Summers,"  "  I  was  up  to 
your  folkeses  house  jist  two  or  three  days  ago.  No, 
there  ain't  many  changes  to  speak  of.  The  lilac  bush 
by  the  kitchen  window  is  over  a  foot  higher,  and  the 
elm  in  the  front  yard  died  and  had  to  be  cut  down. 
And  yet  it  don't  seem  the  same  place  that  it  used 
to  be." 

"  How's  ma  ?"  asked  Miss  Carrington. 

"  She  was  settin'  by  the  front  door,  crocheting  a 

lamp-mat  when  I  saw  her  last,"  said  "  Bill."  "  She's 

older 'n  she  was,  Miss  Posie.  But  everything  in  the 

house  looked  jest  the  same.  Your  ma  asked  me  to  set 

[183] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

down.  '  Don't  touch  that  willow  rocker,  William,'  says 
she.  '  It  ain't  been  moved  since  Posie  left ;  and  that's 
the  apron  she  was  hemmin',  layin'  over  the  arm  of  it, 
jist  as  she  flung  it.  I'm  in  hopes,'  she  goes  on,  '  that 
Posie'll  finish  runnin'  out  that  hem  some  day.' ' 

Miss  Carrington  beckoned  peremptorily  to  a 
waiter. 

"  A  pint  of  extra  dry,"  she  ordered,  briefly ;  "  and 
give  the  check  to  Goldstein." 

"  The  sun  was  shinin'  in  the  door,"  went  on  the 
chronicler  from  Cranberry,  "  and  your  ma  was  settin' 
right  in  it.  I  asked  her  if  she  hadn't  better  move 
back  a  little.  '  William,  says  she,  '  when  I  get  sot 
down  and  lookin'  down  the  road,  I  can't  bear  to 
move.  Never  a  day,'  says  she,  '  but  what  I  set  here 
every  minute  that  I  can  spare  and  watch  over  them 
palin's  for  Posie.  She  went  away  down  that  road 
in  the  night,  for  we  seen  her  little  shoe  tracks  in 
the  dust,  and  somethin'  tells  me  she'll  come  back 
that  way  ag'in  when  she's  weary  of  the  world  and 
begins  to  think  about  her  old  mother.' 

"  When  I  was  comin'  away,"  concluded  "  Bill,"  "  I 
pulled  this  off'n  the  bush  by  the  front  steps.  I  thought 
maybe  I  might  see  you  in  the  city,  and  I  knowed  you'd 
like  somethin'  from  the  old  home." 

He  took  from  his  coat  pocket  a  rose — a  drooping, 
yellow,  velvet,  odorous  rose,  that  hung  its  head  in 
the  foul  atmosphere  of  that  tainted  rathskeller  like 
[184] 


THE  RATHSKELLER  AND  THE  ROSE 

a  virgin  bowing  before  the  hot  breath  of  the  lions 
in  a  Roman  arena. 

Miss  Carrington's  penetrating  but  musical  laugh 
rose  above  the  orchestra's  rendering  of  "  Bluebells." 

"  Oh,  say !"  she  cried,  with  glee,  "  aint't  those  poky 
places  the  limit?  I  just  know  that  two  hours  at 
Cranberry  Corners  would  give  me  the  horrors  now. 
Well,  I'm  awful  glad  to  have  seen  you,  Mr.  Summers. 
I  guess  I'll  hustle  around  to  the  hotel  now  and  get 
my  beauty  sleep." 

She  thrust  the  yellow  rose  into  the  bosom  of  her 
wonderful,  dainty,  silken  garments,  stood  "up  and 
nodded  imperiously  at  Herr  Goldstein. 

Her  three  companions  and  "  Bill  Summers  "  at- 
tended her  to  her  cab.  When  her  flounces  and  stream- 
ers were  all  safely  tucked  inside  she  dazzled  them 
with  au  revoirs  from  her  shining  eyes  and  teeth. 

"  Come  around  to  the  hotel  and  see  me,  Bill,  before 
you  leave  the  city,"  she  called  as  the  glittering  cab 
rolled  away. 

Highsmith,  still  in  his  make-up,  went  with  Herr 
Goldstein  to  a  cafe  booth. 

"Bright  idea,  eh?"  asked  the  smiling  actor. 
"Ought  to  land  '  Sol  Haytosser '  for  me,  don't  you 
think?  The  little  lady  never  once  tumbled." 

"  I  didn't  hear  your  conversation,"  said  Goldstein. 
66  but  your  make-up  and  acting  was  O.  K.  Here's 
to  your  success.  You'd  better  call  on  Miss  Carrington 
[185] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

early  to-morrow  and  strike  her  for  the  part.  I  don't 
see  how  she  can  keep  from  being  satisfied  with  your 
exhibition  of  ability." 

At  11.45  A.  M.  on  the  next  day  Highsmith,  hand- 
some, dressed  in  the  latest  mode,  confident,  with  a 
fuchsia  in  his  button-hole,  sent  up  his  card  to  Miss 
Carrington  in  her  select  apartment  hotel. 

He  was  shown  up  and  received  by  the  actress's 
French  maid. 

"  I  am  sorree,"  said  Mile.  Hortense,  "  but  I  am  to 
say  this  to  all.  It  is  with  great  regret.  Mees  Car- 
rington have  cancelled  all  engagements  on  the  stage 
and  have  returned  to  live  in  that — how  you  call  that 
town  ?  Cranberry  Cornairt !  " 


[186] 


THE  CLARION  CALL 

HALF  of  this  story  can  be  found  in  the  records  of 
the  Police  Department ;  the  other  half  belongs  behind 
the  business  counter  of  a  newspaper  office. 

One  afternoon  two  weeks  after  Millionaire  Nor- 
cross  was  found  in  his  apartment  murdered  by  a 
burglar,  the  murderer,  while  strolling  serenely  down 
Broadway,  ran  plump  against  Detective  Barney 
Woods. 

"  Is  that  you,  Johnny  Kernan?  "  asked  Woods, 
who  had  been  near-sighted  in  public  for  five  years. 

"  No  less,"  cried  Kernan,  heartily.  "  If  it  isn't 
Barney  Woods,  late  and  early  of  old  Saint  Jo !  You'll 
have  to  show  me!  What  are  you  doing  East?  Do 
the  green-goods  circulars  get  out  that  far  ?  " 

"  I've  been  in  New  York  some  years,"  said  Woods. 
"  I'm  on  the  city  detective  force." 

"  Well,  well! "  said  Kernan,  breathing  smiling  joy 
and  patting  the  detective's  arm. 

"Come  into  Muller's,"  said  Woods,  "and  let's 
hunt  a  quiet  table.  I'd  like  to  talk  to  you  awhile." 

It  lacked  a  few  minutes  to  the  hour  of  four.  The 
tides  of  trade  were  not  yet  loosed,  and  they  found  a 
quiet  corner  of  the  cafe.  Kernan,  well  dressed,  slightly 
[187] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

swaggering,  self-confident,  seated  himself  opposite 
the  little  detective,  with  his  pale,  sandy  mustache, 
squinting  eyes  and  ready-made  cheviot  suit. 

"  What  business  are  you  in  now?  "  asked  Woods. 
"  You  know  you  left  Saint  Jo  a  year  before  I  did." 

"  I'm  selling  shares  in  a  copper  mine,"  said  Ker- 
nan.  "  I  may  establish  an  office  here.  Well,  well ! 
and  so  old  Barney  is  a  New  York  detective.  You 
always  had  a  turn  that  way.  You  were  on  the  po- 
lice in  Saint  Jo  after  I  left  there,  weren't  you?  " 

"  Six  months,"  said  Woods.  "  And  now  there's  one 
more  question,  Johnny.  I've  followed  your  record 
pretty  close  ever  since  you  did  that  hotel  job  in 
Saratoga,  and  I  never  knew  you  to  use  your  gun  be- 
fore. Why  did  you  kill  Norcross  ?  " 

Kernan  stared  for  a  few  moments  with  concen- 
trated attention  at  the  slice  of  lemon  in  his  high- 
ball; and  then  he  looked  at  the  detective  with  a 
sudden,  crooked,  brilliant  smile. 

"  How  did  you  guess  it,  Barney  ?  "  he  asked,  ad- 
miringly. "  I  swear  I  thought  the  job  was  as  clean 
and  as  smooth  as  a  peeled  onion.  Did  I  leave  a  string 
hanging  out  anywhere?  " 

Woods  laid  upon  the  table  a  small  gold  pencil 
intended  for  a  watch-charm. 

"  It's  the  one  I  gave  you  the  last  Christmas  we 
were  in  Saint  Jo.  I've  got  your  shaving  mug  yet. 
I  found  this  under  a  corner  of  the  rug  in  Norcross's 
[188] 


THE  CLARION  CALL 

room.  I  warn  you  to  be  careful  what  you  say.  I've 
got  it  put  on  to  you,  Johnny.  We  were  old 
friends  once,  but  I  must  do  my  duty.  You'll  have 
to  go  to  the  chair  for  Norcross." 

Kernan  laughed. 

"  My  luck  stays  with  me,"  said  he.  "  Who'd  have 
thought  old  Barney  was  on  my  trail !  "  He  slipped 
one  hand  inside  his  coat.  In  an  instant  Woods  had 
a  revolver  against  his  side. 

"  Put  it  away,"  said  Kernan,  wrinkling  his  nose. 
"  I'm  only  investigating.  Aha !  It  takes  nine  tailors 
to  make  a  man,  but  one  can  do  a  man  up.  There's 
a  hole  in  that  vest  pocket.  I  took  that  pencil  off  my 
chain  and  slipped  it  in  there  in  case  of  a  scrap.  Put 
up  your  gun,  Barney,  and  I'll  tell  you  why  I  had 
to  shoot  Norcross.  The  old  fool  started  down  the 
hall  after  me,  popping  at  the  buttons  on  the  back 
of  my  coat  with  a  peevish  little  .22  and  I  had  to 
stop  him.  The  old  lady  was  a  darling.  She  just 
lay  in  bed  and  saw  her  $12,000  diamond  necklace  go 
without  a  chirp,  while  she  begged  liki  a  panhandler 
to  have  back  a  little  thin  gold  ring  with  a  garnet 
worth  about  $3.  I  guess  she  married  old  Norcross 
for  his  money,  all  right.  Don't  they  hang  on  to  the 
little  trinkets  from  the  Man  Who  Lost  Out,  though? 
There  were  six  rings,  two  brooches  and  a  chatelaine 
watch.  Fifteen  thousand  would  cover  the  lot." 

"  I  warned  you  not  to  talk,"  said  Woods. 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

"  Oh,  that's  all  right,"  said  Kernan.  "  The  stuff 
is  in  my  suit  case  at  the  hotel.  And  now  I'll  tell  you 
why  I'm  talking.  Because  it's  safe.  I'm  talking  to 
a  man  I  know.  You  owe  me  a  thousand  dollars,  Bar- 
ney Woods,  and  even  if  you  wanted  to  arrest  me 
your  hand  wouldn't  make  the  move." 

"  I  haven't  forgotten,"  said  Woods.  "  You  counted 
out  twenty  fifties  without  a  word.  I'll  pay  it  back 
some  day.  That  thousand  saved  me  and — well,  they 
were  piling  my  furniture  out  on  the  sidewalk  when  I 
got  back  to  the  house." 

"  And  so,"  continued  Kernan,  "  you  being  Barney 
Woods,  born  as  true  as  steel,  and  bound  to  play  a 
white  man's  game,  can't  lift  a  finger  to  arrest  the 
man  you're  indebted  to.  Oh,  I  have  to  study  men 
as  well  as  Yale  locks  and  window  fastenings  in  my 
business.  Now,  keep  quiet  while  I  ring  for  the  waiter. 
I've  had  a  thirst  for  a  year  or  two  that  worries  me 
a  little.  If  I'm  ever  caught  the  lucky  sleuth  will 
have  to  divide  honors  with  old  boy  Booze.  But  I  never 
drink  during  business  hours.  After  a  job  I  can  crook 
elbows  with  my  old  friend  Barney  with  a  clear  con- 
science. What  are  you  taking  ?  " 

The  waiter  came  with  the  little  decanters  and  the 
siphon  and  left  them  alone  again. 

"  You've  called  the  turn,"  said  Woods,  as  he  rolled 
the  little  gold  pencil  about  with  a  thoughtful  fore- 
finger. "  I've  got  to  pass  you  up.  I  can't  lay  a  hand 
[190] 


THE  CLARION  CALL 

on  you.  If  I'd  a-paid  that  money  back — but  I  didn't, 
and  that  settles  it.  It's  a  bad  break  I'm  making, 
Johnny,  but  I  can't  dodge  it.  You  helped  me  once, 
and  it  calls  for  the  same." 

"  I  knew  it,"  said  Kernan,  raising  his  glass,  with 
a  flushed  smile  of  self -appreciation.  "  I  can  judge 
men.  Here's  to  Barney,  for — '  he's  a  jolly  good  fel- 
low.' " 

"  I  don't  believe,"  went  on  Woods  quietly,  as  if  he 
were  thinking  aloud,  "  that  if  accounts  had  been 
square  between  you  and  me,  all  the  money  in  all  the 
banks  in  New  York  could  have  bought  you  out  of 
my  hands  to-night." 

"  I  know  it  couldn't,"  said  Kernan.  "  That's  why 
I  knew  I  was  safe  with  you." 

"  Most  people,"  continued  the  detective,  "  look  side- 
ways at  my  business.  They  don't  class  it  among  the 
fine  arts  and  the  professions.  But  I've  always 
taken  a  kind  of  fool  pride  in  it.  And  here  is  where 
I  go  'busted.'  I  guess  I'm  a  man  first  and  a  detect- 
ive afterward.  I've  got  to  let  you  go,  and  then  I've 
got  to  resign  from  the  force.  I  guess  I  can  drive  an 
express  wagon.  Your  thousand  dollars  is  further  off 
than  ever,  Johnny." 

"  Oh,  you're  welcome  to  it,"  said  Kernan,  with  a 

lordly  air.  "  I'd  be  willing  to  call  the  debt  off,  but 

I  know  you  wouldn't  have  it.  It  was  a  lucky  day 

for  me  when  you  borrowed  it.  And  now,  let's  drop 

[191] 


THE  VOICE  OP  THE  CITY 

the  subject.  I'm  off  to  the  West  on  a  morning  train. 
I  know  a  place  out  there  where  I  can  negotiate  the 
Norcross  sparks.  Drink  up,  Barney,  and  forget  your 
troubles.  We'll  have  a  jolly  time  while  the 
police  are  knocking  their  heads  together  over  the 
case.  I've  got  one  of  my  Sahara  thirsts  on  to-night. 
But  I'm  in  the  hands — the  unofficial  hands — of  my 
old  friend  Barney,  and  I  won't  even  dream  of  a  cop." 

And  then,  as  Kernan's  ready  finger  kept  the  but- 
ton and  the  waiter  working,  his  weak  point — a  tre- 
mendous vanity  and  arrogant  egotism  began  to  show 
itself.  He  recounted  story  after  story  of  his  suc- 
cessful plunderings,  ingenious  plots  and  infamous 
transgressions  until  Woods,  with  all  his  familiarity 
with  evil-doers,  felt  growing  within  him  a  cold  ab- 
horrence toward  the  utterly  vicious  man  who  had  once 
been  his  benefactor. 

"  I'm  disposed  of,  of  course,"  said  Woods,  at 
length.  "But  I  advise  you  to  keep  under  cover  for  a 
spell.  The  newspapers  may  take  up  this  Norcross 
affair.  There  has  been  an  epidemic  of  burglaries  and 
manslaughter  in  town  this  summer." 

The  word  sent  Kernan  into  a  high  glow  of  sullen 
and  vindictive  rage. 

"  To    h — 1    with    the    newspapers,"    he    growled. 

"  What  do  they  spell  but  brag  and  blow  and  boodle  in 

box-car  letters  ?  Suppose  they  do  take  up  a  case — what 

does  it  amount  to?  The  police  are  easy  enough  to  fool; 

[192] 


THE  CLARION  CALL 

but  what  do  the  newspapers  do?  They  send  a  lot 
of  pin-head  reporters  around  to  the  scene ;  and  they 
make  for  the  nearest  saloon  and  have  beer  while 
they  take  photos  of  the  bartender's  oldest  daugh- 
ter in  evening  dress,  to  print  as  the  fiancee  of  the 
young  man  in  the  tenth  story,  who  thought  he  heard 
a  noise  below  on  the  night  of  the  murder.  That's 
about  as  near  as  the  newspapers  ever  come  to  running 
down  Mr.  Burglar." 

"Well,  I  don't  know,"  said  Woods,  reflecting. 
"  Some  of  the  papers  have  done  good  work  in  that 
line.  There's  the  Morning  Mars,  for  instance.  It 
warmed  up  two  or  three  trails,  and  got  the  man  after 
the  police  had  let  'em  get  cold." 

"I'll  show  you,"  said  Kernan,  rising,  and  expand- 
ing his  chest.  "  I'll  show  you  what  I  think  of  news- 
papers in  general,  and  your  Morning  Mars  in  par- 
ticular." 

Three  feet  from  their  table  was  the  telephone 
booth.  Kernan  went  inside  and  sat  at  the  instrument, 
leaving  the  door  open.  He  found  a  number  in  the 
book,  took  down  the  receiver  and  made  his  demand 
upon  Central.  Woods  sat  still,  looking  at  the  sneer- 
ing, cold,  vigilant  face  waiting  close  to  the  trans- 
mitter, and  listened  to  the  words  that  came  from  the 
thin,  truculent  lips  curved  into  a  contemptuous  smile. 

"  That  the  Morning  Mars?  ...  I  want  to  speak 
to  the  managing  editor  .  .  .  Why,  tell  him  it's 
[193] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

some  one  who  wants  to  talk  to  him  about  the  Nor- 
cross  murder. 

"You  the  editor?  ...  All  right.  ...  I  am 
the  man  who  killed  old  Norcross  .  .  .  Wait!  Hold 
the  wire;  I'm  not  the  usual  crank  .  .  .  Oh,  there 
isn't  the  slightest  danger.  I've  just  been  discussing 
it  with  a  detective  friend  of  mine.  I  killed  the  old 
man  at  2:30  A.  M.  two  weeks  ago  to-morrow.  .  .  . 
Have  a  drink  with  you?  Now,  hadn't  you  better  leave 
that  kind  of  talk  to  your  funny  man?  Can't  you  tell 
whether  a  man's  guying  you  or  whether  you're  being 
offered  the  biggest  scoop  your  dull  dishrag  of  a  paper 
ever  had?  .  .  .  Well,  that's  so;  it's  a  bobtail  scoop — 
but  you  can  hardly  expect  me  to  'phone  in  my  name 
and  address.  .  .  .  Why?  Oh,  because  I  heard  you 
make  a  specialty  of  solving  mysterious  crimes  that 
stump  the  police  .  .  .  No,  that's  not  all.  I  want 
to  tell  you  that  your  rotten,  lying,  penny  sheet  is  of 
no  more  use  in  tracking  an  intelligent  murderer  or 
highwayman  than  a  blind  poodle  would  be.  ... 
What?  .  .  .  Oh,  no,  this  isn't  a  rival  newspaper 
office;  you're  getting  it  straight.  I  did  the  Norcross 
job,  and  I've  got  the  jewels  in  my  suit  case  at — 
'  the  name  of  the  hotel  could  not  be  learned  ' — you 
recognize  that  phrase,  don't  you?  I  thought  so. 
You've  used  it  often  enough.  Kind  of  rattles  you, 
doesn't  it,  to  have  the  mysterious  villain  call  up  your 
great,  big,  all-powerful  organ  of  right  and  justice 
[194] 


THE  CLARION  CALL 

and  good  government  and  tell  you  what  a  helpless  old 
gas-bag  you  are?  .  .  .  Cut  that  out;  you're  not 
that  big  a  fool — no,  you  don't  think  I'm  a  fraud.  I 
can  tell  it  by  your  voice.  .  .  .  Now,  listen,  and 
I'll  give  you  a  pointer  that  will  prove  it  to  you.  Of 
course  you've  had  this  murder  case  worked  over  by 
your  staff  of  bright  young  blockheads.  Half  of  the 
second  button  on  old  Mrs.  Norcross's  nightgown  is 
broken  off.  I  saw  it  when  I  took  the  garnet  ring  off 
her  finger.  I  thought  it  was  a  ruby.  .  .  .  Stop 
that !  it  won't  work." 

Kernan  turned  to  Woods  with  a  diabolic  smile. 

"  I've  got  him  going.  He  believes  me  now.  He  didn't 
quite  cover  the  transmitter  with  his  hand  when  he 
told  somebody  to  call  up  Central  on  another  'phone 
and  get  our  number.  I'll  give  him  just  one  more 
dig,  and  then  we'll  make  a  '  get-away.' 

"  Hello !  .  .  .  Yes.  I'm  here  yet.  You  didn't  think 
I'd  run  from  such  a  little  subsidized,  turncoat 
rag  of  a  newspaper,  did  you?  .  .  .  Have  me 
inside  of  forty-eight  hours?  Say,  will  you  quit 
being  funny?  Now,  you  let  grown  men  alone  and 
attend  to  your  business  of  hunting  up  divorce  cases 
and  street-car  accidents  and  printing  the  filth  and 
scandal  that  you  make  your  living  by.  Good-by,  old 
boy — sorry  I  haven't  time  to  call  on  you.  I'd  feel  per- 
fectly safe  in  your  sanctum  asinorum.  Tra-la !  " 

"  He's  as  mad  as  a  cat  that's  lost  a  mouse,"  said 
[195] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

Kernan,  hanging  up  the  receiver  and  coming  out. 
"  And  now,  Barney,  my  boy,  we'll  go  to  a  show  and 
enjoy  ourselves  until  a  reasonable  bedtime.  Four 
hours'  sleep  for  me,,  and  then  the  west-bound." 

The  two  dined  in  a  Broadway  restaurant.  Kernan 
was  pleased  with  himself.  He  spent  money  like  a 
prince  of  fiction.  And  then  a  weird  and  gorgeous  musi- 
cal comedy  engaged  their  attention.  Afterward  there 
was  a  late  supper  in  a  grillroom,  with  champagne, 
and  Kernan  at  the  height  of  his  complacency. 

Half -past  thiee  in  the  morning  found  them  in  a 
corner  of  an  all-night  cafe,  Kernan  still  boasting  in 
a  vapid  and  rambling  way,  Woods  thinking  moodily 
over  the  end  that  had  come  to  his  usefulness  as  an 
upholder  of  the  law. 

But,  as  he  pondered,  his  eye  brightened  with  a 
speculative  light. 

"  I  wonder  if  it's  possible,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  I 
won-der  if  it's  pos-si-ble !  " 

And  then  outside  the  cafe  the  comparative  stillness 
of  the  early  morning  was  punctured  by  faint,  uncer- 
tain cries  that  seemed  mere  fireflies  of  sound,  some 
growing  louder,  some  fainter,  waxing  and  waning 
amid  the  rumble  of  milk  wagons  and  infrequent  cars. 
Shrill  cries  they  were  when  near — well-known  cries  that 
conveyed  many  meanings  to  the  ears  of  those  of  the 
slumbering  millions  of  the  great  city  who  waked  to 
hear  them.  Cries  that  bore  upon  their  significant, 
[196] 


THE  CLARION  CALL 

small  volume  the  weight  of  a  world's  woe  and  laugh- 
ter and  delight  and  stress.  To  some,  cowering  beneath 
the  protection  of  a  night's  ephemeral  cover,  they 
brought  news  of  the  hideous,  bright  day;  to  others, 
wrapped  in  happy  sleep,  they  announced  a  morning 
that  would  dawn  blacker  than  sable  night.  To  many 
of  the  rich  they  brought  a  besom  to  sweep  away 
what  had  been  theirs  while  the  stars  shone;  to  the 
poor  they  brought — another  day. 

All  over  the  city  the  cries  were  starting  up,  keen 
and  sonorous,  heralding  the  chances  that  the  slip- 
ping of  one  cogwheel  in  the  machinery  of  time  had 
made;  apportioning  to  the  sleepers  while  they  lay 
at  the  mercy  of  fate,  the  vengeance,  profit,  grief, 
reward  and  doom  that  the  new  figure  in  the  calen- 
dar had  brought  them.  Shrill  and  yet  plaintive  were 
the  cries,  as  if  the  young  voices  grieved  that  so  much 
evil  and  so  little  good  was  in  their  irresponsible  hands. 
Thus  echoed  in  the  streets  of  the  helpless  city  the 
transmission  Of  the  latest  decrees  of  the  gods,  the 
cries  of  the  newsboys — the  Clarion  Call  of  the  Press. 

Woods  flipped  a  dime  to  the  waiter,  and  said: 

"  Get  me  a  Morning  Mars." 

When  the  paper  came  he  glanced  at  its  first  page, 
and  then  tore  a  leaf  out  of  his  memorandum  book 
and  began  to  write  on  it  with  the  little  gold  pencil. 

"  What's  the  news?  "  yawned  Kernan. 

Woods  flipped  over  to  him  the  piece  of  writing: 
[197] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

"The  New  York  Morning  Mars: 

"  Please  pay  to  the  order  of  John  Kernan  the  one  thousand 
dollars  reward  coming  to  me  for  his  arrest  and  conviction. 

fc<  BARNARD  WOODS." 

"  I  kind   of  thought   they  would  do   that,"   said 
Woods,  "  when  you  were  jollying  'em  so  hard. 
Johnny,  you'll  come  to  the  police  station  with  me. 


[198] 


EXTRADITED  FROM  BOHEMIA 

r  ROM  near  the  village  of  Harmony,  at  the  foot 
of  the  Green  Mountains,  came  Miss  Medora  Martin  to 
New  York  with  her  color-box  and  easel. 

Miss  Medora  resembled  the  rose  which  the  autum- 
nal frosts  had  spared  the  longest  of  all  her  sister 
blossoms.  In  Harmony,  when  she  started  alone  to  the 
wicked  city  to  study  art,  they  said  she  was  a  mad, 
reckless,  headstrong  girl.  In  New  York,  when  she 
first  took  her  seat  at  a  West  Side  boarding-house 
table,  the  boarders  asked :  "  Who  is  the  nice-looking 
old  maid?  " 

Medora  took  heart,  a  cheap  hall  bedroom  and  two 
art  lessons  a  week  from  Professor  Angelini,  a  retired 
barber  who  had  studied  his  profession  in  a  Harlem 
dancing  academy.  There  was  no  one  to  set  her  right, 
for  here  in  the  big  city  they  do  it  unto  all  of  us. 
How  many  of  us  are  badly  shaved  daily  and  taught 
the  two-step  imperfectly  by  ex-pupils  of  Bastien  Le 
Page  and  G£rome?  The  most  pathetic  sight  in  New 
York — except  the  manners  of  the  rush-hour  crowds — 
is  the  dreary  march  of  the  hopeless  army  of  Medioc- 
rity. Here  Art  is  no  benignant  goddess,  but  a  Circe 
who  turns  her  wooers  into  mewing  Toms  and  Tab- 
[199] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

bies  who  linger  about  the  doorsteps  of  her  abode, 
unmindful  of  the  flying  brickbats  and  boot-jacks  of 
the  critics.  Some  of  us  creep  back  to  our  native  vil- 
lages to  the  skim-milk  of  "  I  told  you  so" ;  but  most 
of  us  prefer  to  remain  in  the  cold  courtyard  of  our 
mistress's  temple,  snatching  the  scraps  that  fall  from 
her  divine  table  d'hote.  But  some  of  us  grow  weary 
at  last  of  the  fruitless  service.  And  then  there  are 
two  fates  open  to  us.  We  can  get  a  job  driving  a 
grocer's  wagon,  or  we  can  get  swallowed  up  in  the 
Vortex  of  Bohemia.  The  latter  sounds  good;  but  the 
former  really  pans  out  better.  For,  when  the  grocer 
pays  us  off  we  can  rent  a  dress  suit  and — the  cap- 
italized system  of  humor  describes  it  best — Get  Bo- 
hemia On  the  Run. 

Miss  Medora  chose  the  Vortex  and  thereby  fur- 
nishes us  with  our  little  story. 

Professor  Angelini  praised  her  sketches  excessively. 
Once  when  she  had  made  a  neat  study  of  a  horse- 
chestnut  tree  in  the  park  he  declared  she  would  be- 
come a  second  Rosa  Bonheur.  Again — a  great  artist 
has  his  moods — he  would  say  cruel  and  cutting  things. 
For  example,  Medora  had  spent  an  afternoon  pa- 
tiently sketching  the  statue  and  the  architecture  at 
Columbus  Circle.  Tossing  it  aside  with  a  sneer,  the 
professor  informed  her  that  Giotto  had  once  drawn  a 
perfect  circle  with  one  sweep  of  his  hand. 

One  day  it  rained,  the  weekly  remittance  from  Har- 
[200] 


EXTRADITED  FROM  BOHEMIA 

mony  was  overdue,  Medora  had  a  headache,  the  pro- 
fessor had  tried  to  borrow  two  dollars  from  her,  her 
art  dealer  had  sent  back  all  her  water-colors  unsold, 
and — Mr.  Binkley  asked  her  out  to  dinner. 

Mr.  Binkley  was  the  gay  boy  of  the  boarding- 
house.  He  was  forty-nine,  and  owned  a  fishstall  in 
a  downtown  market.  But  after  six  o'clock  he  wore  an 
evening  suit  and  whooped  things  up  connected  with 
the  beaux  arts.  The  young  men  said  he  was  an  "  In- 
dian." He  was  supposed  to  be  an  accomplished  ha- 
bitue of  the  inner  circles  of  Bohemia.  It  was  no  secret 
that  he  had  once  loaned  $10  to  a  young  man  who  had 
had  a  drawing  printed  in  Puck.  Often  has  one  thus 
obtained  his  entree  into  the  charmed  circle,  while 
the  other  obtained  both  his  entree  and  roast. 

The  other  boarders  enviously  regarded  Medora  as 
she  left  at  Mr.  Binkley's  side  at  nine  o'clock.  She 
was  as  sweet  as  a  cluster  of  dried  autumn  grasses 
in  her  pale  blue — oh — er — that  very  thin  stuff 
— in  her  pale  blue  Comstockized  silk  waist  and 
box-pleated  voile  skirt,  with  a  soft  pink  glow  on 
her  thin  cheeks  and  the  tiniest  bit  of  rouge  powder 
on  her  face,  with  her  handkerchief  and  room  key  in 
her  brown  walrus,  pebble-grain  hand-bag. 

And  Mr.  Binkley  looked  imposing  and  dashing  with 
his  red  face  and  gray  mustache,  and  his  tight  dress 
coat,  that  made  the  back  of  his  neck  roll  up  just 
like  a  successful  novelist's. 

[201] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

They  drove  in  a  cab  to  the  Cafe"  Terence,  just  off 
the  most  glittering  part  of  Broadway,  which,  as 
every  one  knows,  is  one  of  the  most  popular  and 
widely  patronized,  jealously  exclusive  Bohemian  re- 
sorts in  the  city. 

Down  between  the  rows  of  little  tables  tripped 
Medora,  of  the  Green  Mountains,  after  her  escort. 
Thrice  in  a  lifetime  may  woman  walk  upon  clouds — 
once  when  she  trippeth  to  the  altar,  once  when  she 
first  enters  Bohemian  halls,  the  last  when  she  marches 
back  across  her  first  garden  with  the  dead  hen  of  her 
neighbor  in  her  hand. 

There  was  a  table  set,  with  three  or  four  about  it. 
A  waiter  buzzed  around  it  like  a  bee,  and  silver  and 
glass  shone  upon  it.  And,  preliminary  to  the  meal, 
as  the  prehistoric  granite  strata  heralded  the  pro- 
tozoa, the  bread  of  Gaul,  compounded  after  the  for- 
mula of  the  recipe  for  the  eternal  hills,  was  there  set 
forth  to  the  hand  and  tooth  of  a  long-suffering  city, 
while  the  gods  lay  beside  their  nectar  and  home-made 
biscuits  and  smiled,  and  the  dentists  leaped  for  joy 
in  their  gold-leafy  dens. 

The  eye  of  Binkley  fixed  a  young  man  at  his  table 
with  the  Bohemian  gleam,  which  is  a  compound  of 
the  look  of  the  basilisk,  the  shine  of  a  bubble  of 
Wiirzburger,  the  inspiration  of  genius  and  the  plead- 
ing of  a  panhandler. 

The  young  man  sprang  to  his  feet.  "  Hello,  Bink, 
[802] 


EXTRADITED  FROM  BOHEMIA 

old  boy !"  he  shouted.  "  Don't  tell  me  you  were  going 
to  pass  our  table.  Join  us — unless  you've  another 
crowd  on  hand." 

"  Don't  mind,  old  chap,"  said  Binkley,  of  the  fish- 
stall.  "  You  know  how  I  like  to  butt  up  against  the 
fine  arts.  Mr.  Vandyke — Mr.  Madder — er — Miss 
Martin,  one  of  the  elect  also  in  art — er " 

The  introduction  went  around.  There  were  also 
Miss  Elise  and  Miss  'Toinette.  Perhaps  they  were 
models,  for  they  chattered  of  the  St.  Regis  decora- 
tions and  Henry  James — and  they  did  it  not  badly. 

Medora  sat  in  transport.  Music — wild,  intoxicat- 
ing music  made  by  troubadours  direct  from  a  rear 
basement  room  in  Elysium — set  her  thoughts  to  danc- 
ing. Here  was  a  world  never  before  penetrated  by 
her  warmest  imagination  or  any  of  the  lines  con- 
trolled by  Harriman.  With  the  Green  Mountains'  ex- 
ternal calm  upon  her  she  sat,  her  soul  flaming  in  her 
with  the  fire  of  Andalusia.  The  tables  were  filled  with 
Bohemia.  The  room  was  full  of  the  fragrance  of  flow- 
ers— both  mille  and  cauli.  Questions  and  corks 
popped;  laughter  and  silver  rang;  champagne 
flashed  in  the  pail,  wit  flashed  in  the  pan. 

Vandyke  ruffled  his  long,  black  locks,  disarranged 
his  careless  tie  and  leaned  over  to  Madder. 

"  Say,  Maddy,"  he  whispered,  feelingly,  "  some- 
times   I'm   tempted   to   pay   this   Philistine   his   ten 
dollars  and  get  rid  of  him." 
[203] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

Madder  ruffled  his  long,  sandy  locks  and  disar- 
ranged his  careless  tie. 

"  Don't  think  of  it,  Vandy,"  he  replied.  "  We  are 
short,  and  Art  is  long." 

Medora  ate  strange  viands  and  drank  elderberry 
wine  that  they  poured  in  her  glass.  It  was  just  the 
color  of  that  in  the  Vermont  home.  The  waiter  poured 
something  in  another  glass  that  seemed  to  be  boil- 
ing, but  when  she  tasted  it  it  was  not  hot.  She  had 
never  felt  so  light-hearted  before.  She  thought  lov- 
ingly of  the  Green  Mountain  farm  and  its  fauna. 
She  leaned,  smiling,  to  Miss  Elise. 

"  If  I  were  at  home,"  she  said,  beamingly,  "  I  could 
show  you  the  cutest  little  calf !  " 

"  Nothing  for  you  in  the  White  Lane,"  said  Miss 
Elise.  "  Why  don't  you  pad?  " 

The  orchestra  played  a  wailing  waltz  that  Medora 
had  learned  from  the  hand-organs.  She  followed  the 
air  with  nodding  head  in  a  sweet  soprano  hum.  Mad- 
der looked  across  the  table  at  her,  and  wondered  in 
what  strange  waters  Binkley  had  caught  her  in  his 
seine.  She  smiled  at  him,  and  they  raised  glasses 
and  drank  of  the  wine  that  boiled  when  it  was  cold. 
Binkley  had  abandoned  art  and  was  prating  of  the 
unusual  spring  catch  of  shad.  Miss  Elise  arranged 
the  palette-and-maul-stick  tie  pin  of  Mr.  Vandyke.  A 
Philistine  at  some  distant  table  was  maundering  volu- 
bly either  about  Jerome  or  Gerome.  A  famous  actress 


EXTRADITED  FROM  BOHEMIA 

was  discoursing  excitably  about  monogrammed 
hosiery.  A  hose  clerk  from  a  department  store  was 
loudly  proclaiming  his  opinions  of  the  drama.  A 
writer  was  abusing  Dickens.  A  magazine  editor  and  a 
photographer  were  drinking  a  dry  brand  at  a  re- 
served table.  A  36-25-42  young  lady  was  saying  to 
an  eminent  sculptor:  "  Fudge  for  your  Prax  Italy  s ! 
Bring  one  of  your  Venus  Anno  Dominis  down  to 
Cohen's  and  see  how  quick  she'd  be  turned  down  for 
a  cloak  model.  Back  to  the  quarries  with  your  Greeks 
and  Dagos !  " 

Thus  went  Bohemia. 

At  eleven  Mr.  Binkley  took  Medora  to  the  boarding- 
house  and  left  her,  with  a  society  bow,  at  the  foot  of 
the  hall  stairs.  She  went  up  to  her  room  and  lit  the  gas. 

And  then,  as  suddenly  as  the  dreadful  genie  arose 
in  vapor  from  the  copper  vase  of  the  fisherman, 
arose  in  that  room  the  formidable  shape  of  the  New 
England  Conscience.  The  terrible  thing  that  Medora 
had  done  was  revealed  to  her  in  its  full  enormity. 
She  had  sat  in  the  presence  of  the  ungodly  and 
looked  upon  the  wine  both  when  it  was  red  and  ef- 
fervescent. 

At  midnight  she  wrote  this  letter: 

"  Mr.  BERIAH  HOSKINS,  Harmony,  Vermont. 

"  Dear  Sir :  Henceforth,  consider  me  as  dead  to 
you  forever.  I  have  loved  you  too  well  to  blight  your 
[205] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

career  by  bringing  into  it  my  guilty  and  sin-stained 
life.  I  have  succumbed  to  the  insidious  wiles  of  this 
wicked  world  and  have  been  drawn  into  the  vortex  of 
Bohemia.  There  is  scarcely  any  depth  of  glittering 
iniquity  that  I  have  not  sounded.  It  is  hopeless  to 
combat  my  decision.  There  is  no  rising  from  the 
depths  to  which  I  have  sunk.  Endeavor  to  forget  me. 
I  am  lost  forever  in  the  fair  but  brutal  maze  of 
awful  Bohemia.  Farewell. 

"  ONCE  YOUR  MEDOBA." 

On  the  next  day  Medora  formed  her  resolutions. 
Beelzebub,  flung  from  heaven,  was  no  more  cast  down. 
Between  her  and  the  apple  blossoms  of  Harmony 
there  was  a  fixed  gulf.  Flaming  cherubim  warded  her 
from  the  gates  of  her  lost  paradise.  In  one  evening, 
by  the  aid  of  Binkley  and  Mumm,  Bohemia  had 
gathered  her  into  its  awful  midst. 

There  remained  to  her  but  one  thing — a  life  of 
brilliant,  but  irremediable  error.  Vermont  was  a 
shrine  that  she  never  would  dare  to  approach  again. 
But  she  would  not  sink — there  were  great  and  com- 
pelling ones  in  history  upon  whom  she  would  model 
her  meteoric  career — Camille,  Lola  Montez,  Royal 
Mary,  Zaza — such  a  name  as  one  of  these  would  that 
of  Medora  Martin  be  to  future  generations. 

For  two  days  Medora  kept  her  room.  On  the  third 
she  opened  a  magazine  at  the  portrait  of  the  King 
[206] 


EXTRADITED  FROM  BOHEMIA 

of  Belgium,  and  laughed  sardonically.  If  that  far- 
famed  breaker  of  women's  hearts  should  cross  her 
path,  he  would  have  to  bow  before  her  cold  and  im- 
perious beauty.  She  would  not  spare  the  old  or 
the  young.  All  America — all  Europe  should  do 
homage  to  her  sinister,  but  compelling  charm. 

As  yet  she  could  not  bear  to  think  of  the  life  she 
had  once  desired — a  peaceful  one  in  the  shadow  of 
the  Green  Mountains  with  Beriah  at  her  side,  and 
orders  for  expensive  oil  paintings  coming  in  by  each 
mail  from  New  York.  Her  one  fatal  misstep  had  shat- 
tered that  dream. 

On  the  fourth  day  Medora  powdered  her  face  and 
rouged  her  lips.  Once  she  had  seen  Carter  in  "Zaza." 
She  stood  before  the  mirror  in  a  reckless  attitude 
and  cried:  "  Zutl  zut!  "  She  rhymed  it  with  "  nut," 
but  with  the  lawless  word  Harmony  seemed  to  pass 
away  forever.  The  Vortex  had  her.  She  belonged  to 
Bohemia  for  evermore.  And  never  would  Beriah 

The  door  opened  and  Beriah  walked  in. 

"  'Dory,"  said  he,  "  what's  all  that  chalk  and  pink 
stuff  on  your  face,  honey  ?  " 

Medora  extended  an  arm. 

"  Too  late,"  she  said,  solemnly.  "  The  die  is  cast. 
I  belong  in  another  world.  Curse  me  if  you  will — 
it  is  your  right.  Go,  and  leave  me  in  the  path  I 
have  chosen.  Bid  them  all  at  home  never  to  men- 
tion my  name  again.  And  sometimes,  Beriah,  pray 
[207] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

for  me  when  I  am  revelling  in  the  gaudy,  but  hol- 
low, pleasures  of  Bohemia." 

"  Get  a  towel,  'Dory,"  said  Beriah,  "  and  wipe  that 
paint  off  your  face.  I  came  as  soon  as  I  got  your 
letter.  Them  pictures  of  yours  ain't  amounting  to 
anything.  I've  got  tickets  for  both  of  us  back  on 
the  evening  train.  Hurry  and  get  your  things  in 
your  trunk." 

"  Fate  was  too  strong  for  me,  Beriah.  Go  while  I 
am  strong  to  bear  it." 

"  How  do  you  fold  this  easel,  'Dory? — now  begin 
to  pack,  so  we  have  time  to  eat  before  train  time. 
The  maples  is  all  out  in  full-grown  leaves,  'Dory — 
you  just  ought  to  see  'em !  " 

"  Not  this  early,  Beriah?  " 

"  You  ought  to  see  'em,  'Dory ;  they're  like  an 
ocean  of  green  in  the  morning  sunlight." 

"  Oh,  Beriah !  " 

On  the  train  she  said  to  him  suddenly: 

"  I  wonder  why  you  came  when  you  got  my  let- 
ter." 

"  Oh,  shucks !  "  said  Beriah.  "  Did  you  think  you 
could  fool  me?  How  could  you  be  run  away  to  that 
Bohemia  country  like  you  said  when  your  letter  was 
postmarked  New  York  as  plain  as  day?  " 


[208] 


A  PHILISTINE  IN  BOHEMIA 

GEORGE  WASHINGTON,  with  his  right  arm  up- 
raised, sits  his  iron  horse  at  the  lower  corner  of 
Union  Square,  forever  signalling  the  Broadway  cars 
to  stop  as  they  round  the  curve  into  Fourteenth 
Street.  But  the  cars  buzz  on,  heedless,  as  they  do  at 
the  beck  of  a  private  citizen,  and  the  great  General 
must  feel,  unless  his  nerves  are  iron,  that  rapid  tran- 
sit gloria  mundi. 

Should  the  General  raise  his  left  hand  as  he  has 
raised  his  right  it  would  point  to  a  quarter  of  the 
city  that  forms  a  haven  for  the  oppressed  and  sup- 
pressed of  foreign  lands.  In  the  cause  of  national 
or  personal  freedom  they  have  found  a  refuge  here, 
and  the  patriot  who  made  it  for  them  sits  his  steed, 
overlooking  their  district,  while  he  listens  through  his 
left  ear  to  vaudeville  that  caricatures  the  posterity 
of  his  proteges.  Italy,  Poland,  the  former  Spanish 
possessions  and  the  polyglot  tribes  of  Austria-Hun- 
gary have  spilled  here  a  thick  lather  of  their  effer- 
vescent sons.  In  the  eccentric  cafes  and  lodging- 
houses  of  the  vicinity  they  hover  over  their  native 
wines  and  political  secrets.  The  colony  changes  with 
much  frequency.  Faces  disappear  from  the  haunts  to 
[209] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

be  replaced  by  others.  Whither  do  these  uneasy  birds 
flit?  For  half  of  the  answer  observe  carefully  the 
suave  foreign  air  and  foreign  courtesy  of  the  next 
waiter  who  serves  your  table  d'hote.  For  the  other 
half,  perhaps  if  the  barber  shops  had  tongues  (and 
who  will  dispute  it?)  they  could  tell  their  share. 

Titles  are  as  plentiful  as  finger  rings  among  these 
transitory  exiles.  For  lack  of  proper  exploitation  a 
stock  of  titled  goods  large  enough  to  supply  the  trade 
of  upper  Fifth  Avenue  is  here  condemned  to  a  mere 
pushcart  traffic.  The  new-world  landlords  who 
entertain  these  offshoots  of  nobility  are  not  dazzled 
by  coronets  and  crests.  They  have  doughnuts  to  sell 
instead  of  daughters.  With  them  it  is  a  serious  matter 
of  trading  in  flour  and  sugar  instead  of  pearl  powder 
and  bonbons. 

These  assertions  are  deemed  fitting  as  an  introduc- 
tion to  the  tale,  which  is  of  plebeians  and  contains  no 
one  with  even  the  ghost  of  a  title. 

Katy  Dempsey's  mother  kept  a  furnished-room 
house  in  this  oasis  of  the  aliens.  The  business  was 
not  profitable.  If  the  two  scraped  together  enough  to 
meet  the  landlord's  agent  on  rent  day  and  nego- 
tiate for  the  ingredients  of  a  daily  Irish  stew  they 
called  it  success.  Often  the  stew  lacked  both  meat  and 
potatoes.  Sometimes  it  became  as  bad  as  consomme 
with  music. 

In  this  mouldy  old  house  Katy  waxed  plump  and 
[210] 


A  PHILISTINE  IN  BOHEMIA 

pert  and  wholesome  and  as  beautiful  and  freckled  as  a 
tiger  lily.  She  was  the  good  fairy  who  was  guilty  of 
placing  the  damp  clean  towels  and  cracked  pitchers 
of  freshly  laundered  Croton  in  the  lodgers'  rooms. 

You  are  informed  (by  virtue  of  the  privileges  of 
astronomical  discovery)  that  the  star  lodger's  name 
was  Mr.  Brunelli.  His  wearing  a  yellow  tie  and  pay- 
ing his  rent  promptly  distinguished  him  from  the 
other  lodgers.  His  raiment  was  splendid,  his  complex- 
ion olive,  his  mustache  fierce,  his  manners  a  prince's, 
his  rings  and  pins  as  magnificent  as  those  of  a  travel- 
ling dentist. 

He  had  breakfast  served  in  his  room,  and  he  ate  it 
in  a  red  dressing  gown  with  green  tassels.  He  left  the 
house  at  noon  and  returned  at  midnight.  Those  were 
mysterious  hours,  but  there  was  nothing  mysterious 
about  Mrs.  Dempsey's  lodgers  except  the  things  that 
were  not  mysterious.  One  of  Mr.  Kipling's  poems  is 
addressed  to  "  Ye  who  hold  the  unwritten  clue  to  all 
save  all  unwritten  things."  The  same  "  readers  "  are 
invited  to  tackle  the  foregoing  assertion. 

Mr.  Brunelli,  being  impressionable  and  a  Latin, 
fell  to  conjugating  the  verb  "  amare,"  with  Katy  in 
the  objective  case,  though  not  because  of  antipathy. 
She  talked  it  over  with  her  mother. 

"  Sure,  I  like  him,"  said  Katy.  "  He's  more  polite- 
ness than  twinty  candidates  for  Alderman,  and  he 
makes  me  feel  like  a  queen  whin  he  walks  at  me  side. 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

But  what  is  he,  I  dinno?  I've  me  suspicions.  The 
marnin'll  coom  whin  he'll  throt  out  the  picture  av  his 
baronial  halls  and  ax  to  have  the  week's  rint  hung 
up  in  the  ice  chist  along  wid  all  the  rist  of  'em." 

"  'Tis  thrue,"  admitted  Mrs.  Dempsey,  "  that  he 
seems  to  be  a  sort  iv  a  Dago,  and  too  coolchured  in 
his  spache  for  a  rale  gintleman.  But  ye  may  be  mis- 
judgin'  him.  Ye  should  niver  suspect  any  wan  of  bein' 
of  noble  descint  that  pays  cash  and  pathronizes  the 
laundry  rig'lar." 

"  He's  the  same  thricks  of  spakin'  and  blarneyin' 
wid  his  hands,"  sighed  Katy,  "  as  the  Frinch  noble- 
man at  Mrs.  Toole's  that  ran  away  wid  Mr.  Toole's 
Sunday  pants  and  left  the  photograph  of  the  Bastile, 
his  grandfather's  chat-taw,  as  security  for  tin  weeks' 
rint." 

Mr.  Brunelli  continued  his  calorific  wooing.  Katy 
continued  to  hesitate.  One  day  he  asked  her  out  to  dine 
and  she  felt  that  a  denouement  was  in  the  air.  While 
they  are  on  their  way,  with  Katy  in  her  best  muslin, 
you  must  take  as  an  entr'acte  a  brief  peep  at  New 
York's  Bohemia. 

'Tonio's  restaurant  is  in  Bohemia.  The  very  loca- 
tion of  it  is  secret.  If  you  wish  to  know  where  it  is 
ask  the  first  person  you  meet.  He  will  tell  you  in  a 
whisper.  'Tonio  discountenances  custom ;  he  keeps  his 
house-front  black  and  forbidding ;  he  gives  you  a 
pretty  bad  dinner;  he  locks  his  door  at  the  dining 


A  PHILISTINE  IN  BOHEMIA 

hour;  but  he  knows  spaghetti  as  the  boarding-house 
knows  cold  veal ;  and — he  has  deposited  many  dollars 
in  a  certain  Banco  di  -  -  something  with  many  gold 
vowels  in  the  name  on  its  windows. 

To  this  restaurant  Mr.  Brunelli  conducted  Katy. 
The  house  was  dark  and  the  shades  were  lowered ;  but 
Mr.  Brunelli  touched  an  electric  button  by  the  base- 
ment door,  and  they  were  admitted. 

Along  a  long,  dark,  narrow  hallway  they  went  and 
then  through  a  shining  and  spotless  kitchen  that 
opened  directly  upon  a  back  yard. 

The  walls  of  houses  hemmed  three  sides  of  the  yard ; 
a  high,  board  fence,  surrounded  by  cats,  the  other. 
A  wash  of  clothes  was  suspended  high  upon  a  line 
stretched  from  diagonal  corners.  Those  were  property 
clothes,  and  were  never  taken  in  by  'Tonio.  They  were 
there  that  wits  with  defective  pronunciation  might 
make  puns  in  connection  with  the  ragout. 

A  dozen  and  a  half  little  tables  set  upon  the  bare 
ground  were  crowded  with  Bohemia-hunters,  who 
flocked  there  because  'Tonio  pretended  not  to  want 
them  and  pretended  to  give  them  a  good  dinner.  There 
was  a  sprinkling  of  real  Bohemians  present  who  came 
for  a  change  because  they  were  tired  of  the  real  Bo- 
hemia, and  a  smart  shower  of  the  men  who  originate 
the  bright  sayings  of  Congressmen  and  the  little 
nephew  of  the  well-known  general  passenger  agent  of 
the  Evansville  and  Terre  Haute  Railroad  Company. 
[213] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

Here  is  a  bon  mot  that  was  manufactured  at 
5Tonio's : 

"  A  dinner  at  'Tonio's,"  said  a  Bohemian,  "always 
amounts  to  twice  the  price  that  is  asked  for  it." 

Let  us  assume  that  an  accommodating  voice 
inquires : 

"How  so?" 

"  The  dinner  costs  you  40  cents ;  you  give  10  cents 
to  the  waiter,  and  it  makes  you  feel  like  30  cents." 

Most  of  the  diners  were  confirmed  table  d'hoters — 
gastronomic  adventurers,  forever  seeking  the  El  Do- 
rado of  a  good  claret,  and  consistently  coming  to 
grief  in  California. 

Mr.  Brunelli  escorted  Katy  to  a  little  table  em- 
bowered with  shrubbery  in  tubs,  and  asked  her  to 
excuse  him  for  a  while. 

Katy  sat,  enchanted  by  a  scene  so  brilliant  to  her. 
The  grand  ladies,  in  splendid  dresses  and  plumes  and 
sparkling  rings;  the  fine  gentlemen  who  laughed  so 
loudly,  the  cries  of  "  Garsong !  "  and  "  We,  monseer," 
and  "  Hello,  Mame !  "  that  distinguish  Bohemia ;  the 
lively  chatter,  the  cigarette  smoke,  the  interchange  of 
bright  smiles  and  eye-glances — all  this  display  and 
magnificence  overpowered  the  daughter  of  Mrs. 
Dempsey  and  held  her  motionless. 

Mr.  Brunelli  stepped  into  the  yard  and  seemed  to 
spread  his  smile  and  bow  over  the  entire  company. 
And  everywhere  there  was  a  great  clapping  of  hands 
[214] 


A  PHILISTINE  IN  BOHEMIA 

and  a  few  cries  of  «  Bravo !  "  and  "  'Tonio !  'Tonio !  " 
whatever  those  words  might  mean.  Ladies  waved  their 
napkins  at  him,  gentlemen  almost  twisted  their  necks 
off,  trying  to  catch  his  nod. 

When  the  ovation  was  concluded  Mr.  Brunelli,  with 
a  final  bow,  stepped  nimbly  into  the  kitchen  and  flung 
off  his  coat  and  waistcoat. 

Flaherty,  the  nimblest  "  garsong  "  among  the  wait- 
ers, had  been  assigned  to  the  special  service  of  Katy. 
She  was  a  little  faint  from  hunger,  for  the  Irish  stew 
on  the  Dempsey  table  had  been  particularly  weak  that 
day.  Delicious  odors  from  unknown  dishes  tantalized 
her.  And  Flaherty  began  to  bring  to  her  table  course 
after  course  of  ambrosial  food  that  the  gods  might 
have  pronounced  excellent. 

But  even  in  the  midst  of  her  Lucullian  repast  Katy 
laid  down  her  knife  and  fork.  Her  heart  sank  as  lead, 
and  a  tear  fell  upon  her  filet  mignon.  Her  haunting 
suspicions  of  the  star  lodger  arose  again,  fourfold. 
Thus  courted  and  admired  and  smiled  upon  by  that 
fashionable  and  gracious  assembly,  what  else  could 
Mr.  Brunelli  be  but  one  of  those  dazzling  titled  pa- 
tricians, glorious  of  name  but  shy  of  rent  money,  con- 
cerning whom  experience  had  made  her  wise?  With  a 
sense  of  his  ineligibility  growing  within  her  there  was 
mingled  a  torturing  conviction  that  his  personality 
was  becoming  more  pleasing  to  her  day  by  day.  And 
why  had  he  left  her  to  dine  alone? 
[215] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

But  here  he  was  coming  again,  now  coatless,  his 
snowy  shirt-sleeves  rolled  high  above  his  Jeffries- 
onian  elbows,  a  white  yachting  cap  perched  upon  his 
jetty  curls. 

"'Tonio!  'Tonio!"  shouted  many,  and  "The 
spaghetti !  The  spaghetti !  "  shouted  the  rest. 

Never  at  'Tonio's  did  a  waiter  dare  to  serve  a  dish 
of  spaghetti  until  'Tonio  came  to  test  it,  to  prove  the 
sauce  and  add  the  needful  dash  of  seasoning  that  gave 
it  perfection. 

From  table  to  table  moved  'Tonio,  like  a  prince  in 
his  palace,  greeting  his  guests.  White,  jewelled  hands 
signalled  him  from  every  side. 

A  glass  of  wine  with  this  one  and  that,  smiles  for 
all,  a  jest  and  repartee  for  any  that  might  challenge 
— truly  few  princes  could  be  so  agreeable  a  host !  And 
what  artist  could  ask  for  further  appreciation  of  his 
handiwork  ?  Katy  did  not  know  that  the  proudest  con- 
summation of  a  New  Yorker's  ambition  is  to  shake 
hands  with  a  spaghetti  chef  or  to  receive  a  nod  from  a 
Broadway  head-waiter. 

At  last  the  company  thinned,  leaving  but  a  few 
couples  and  quartettes  lingering  over  new  wine  and 
old  stories.  And  then  came  Mr.  Brunelli  to  Katy's 
secluded  table,  and  drew  a  chair  close  to  hers. 

Katy  smiled  at  him  dreamily.  She  was  eating  the 
last  spoonful  of  a  raspberry  roll  with  Burgundy 
sauce. 

[216] 


A  PHILISTINE  IN  BOHEMIA 

"  You  have  seen !  "  said  Mr.  Brunelli,  laying  one 
hand  upon  his  collar  bone.  "  I  am  Antonio  Brunelli ! 
Yes ;  I  am  the  great  'Tonio !  You  have  not  suspect 
that!  I  loave  you,  Katy,  and  you  shall  marry  with 
me.  Is  it  not  so?  Call  me  '  Antonio,'  and  say  that  you 
will  be  mine." 

Katy's  head  drooped  to  the  shoulder  that  was  now 
freed  from  all  suspicion  of  having  received  the 
knightly  accolade. 

"  Oh,  Andy,"  she  sighed,  "  this  is  great !  Sure,  I'll 
marry  wid  ye.  But  why  didn't  ye  tell  me  ye  was  the 
cook?  I  was  near  turnin'  ye  down  for  bein'  one  of 
thim  foreign  counts !  " 


[217] 


FROM  EACH  ACCORDING  TO  HIS 
ABILITY 

VUYNING  left  his  club,  cursing  it  softly,  without 
any  particular  anger.  From  ten  in  the  morning  until 
eleven  it  had  bored  him  immeasurably.  Kirk  with  his 
fish  story,  Brooks  with  his  Porto  Rico  cigars,  old 
Morrison  with  his  anecdote  about  the  widow,  Hepburn 
with  his  invariable  luck  at  billiards — all  these  afflic- 
tions had  been  repeated  without  change  of  bill  or 
scenery.  Besides  these  morning  evils  Miss  Allison  had 
refused  him  again  on  the  night  before.  But  that  was  a 
chronic  trouble.  Five  times  she  had  laughed  at  his 
offer  to  make  her  Mrs.  Vuyning.  He  intended  to  ask 
her  again  the  next  Wednesday  evening. 

Vuyning  walked  along  Forty-fourth  Street  to 
Broadway,  and  then  drifted  down  the  great  sluice  that 
washes  out  the  dust  of  the  gold-mines  of  Gotham.  He 
wore  a  morning  suit  of  light  gray,  low,  dull  kid  shoes, 
a  plain,  finely  woven  straw  hat,  and  his  visible  linen 
was  the  most  delicate  possible  shade  of  heliotrope.  His 
necktie  was  the  blue-gray  of  a  November  sky,  and  its 
knot  was  plainly  the  outcome  of  a  lordly  carelessness 
combined  with  an  accurate  conception  of  the  most  re- 
cent dictum  of  fashion. 

[218] 


FROM  EACH  ACCORDING  TO  HIS  ABILITY 

Now,  to  write  of  a  man's  haberdashery  is  a  worse 
thing  than  to  write  a  historical  novel  "  around  "  Paul 
Jones,  or  to  pen  a  testimonial  to  a  hay-fever  cure. 

Therefore,  let  it  be  known  that  the  description  of 
Vuyning's  apparel  is  germane  to  the  movements  of  the 
story,  and  not  to  make  room  for  the  new  fall  stock  of 
goods. 

Even  Broadway  that  morning  was  a  discord  in 
Vuyning's  ears ;  and  in  his  eyes  it  paralleled  for  a  few 
dreamy,  dreary  minutes  a  certain  howling,  scorching, 
seething,  malodorous  slice  of  street  that  he  remem- 
bered in  Morocco.  He  saw  the  struggling  mass  of 
dogs,  beggars,  fakirs,  slave-drivers  and  veiled  women 
in  carts  without  horses,  the  sun  blazing  brightly 
among  the  bazaars,  the  piles  of  rubbish  from  ruined 
temples  in  the  street — and  then  a  lady,  passing, 
jabbed  the  ferrule  of  a  parasol  in  his  side  and 
brought  him  back  to  Broadway. 

Five  minutes  of  his  stroll  brought  him  to  a  certain 
corner,  where  a  number  of  silent,  pale-faced  men  are 
accustomed  to  stand,  immovably,  for  hours,  busy 
with  the  file  blades  of  their  penknives,  with  their  hat 
brims  on  a  level  with  their  eyelids.  Wall  Street  specu- 
lators, driving  home  in  their  carriages,  love  to  point 
out  these  men  to  their  visiting  friends  and  tell  them 
of  this  rather  famous  lounging-place  of  the  "  crooks." 
On  Wall  Street  the  speculators  never  use  the  file 
blades  of  their  knives. 

[219] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

Vuyning  was  delighted  when  one  of  this  company 
stepped  forth  and  addressed  him  as  he  was  passing. 
He  was  hungry  for  something  out  of  the  ordinary, 
and  to  be  accosted  by  this  smooth-faced,  keen-eyed, 
low-voiced,  athletic  member  of  the  under  world,  with 
his  grim,  yet  pleasant  smile,  had  all  the  taste  of  an 
adventure  to  the  convention-weary  Vuyning. 

"  Excuse  me,  friend,"  said  he.  "  Could  I  have  a  few 
minutes'  talk  with  you — on  the  level?  " 

"  Certainly,"  said  Vuyning,  with  a  smile.  "  But, 
suppose  we  step  aside  to  a  quieter  place.  There  is  a 
divan — a  cafe  over  here  that  will  do.  Schrumm  will 
give  us  a  private  corner." 

Schrumm  established  them  under  a  growing  palm, 
with  two  seidls  between  them.  Vuyning  made  a  pleas- 
ant reference  to  meteorological  conditions,  thus  form- 
ing a  hinge  upon  which  might  be  swung  the  door 
leading  from  the  thought  repository  of  the  other. 

"  In  the  first  place,"  said  his  companion,  with  the 
air  of  one  who  presents  his  credentials,  "  I  want  you 
to  understand  that  I  am  a  crook.  Out  West  I  am 
known  as  Rowdy  the  Dude.  Pickpocket,  supper  man, 
second-story  man,  yeggman,  boxman,  all-round  bur- 
glar, card-sharp  and  slickest  con  man  west  of  the 
Twenty-third  Street  ferry  landing — that's  my  his- 
tory. That's  to  show  I'm  on  the  square — with  you. 
My  name's  Emerson." 

"  Confound  old  Kirk  with  his  fish  stories,"  said 
[220] 


FROM  EACH  ACCORDING  TO  HIS  ABILITY 

Vuyning  to  himself,  with  silent  glee  as  he  went 
through  his  pockets  for  a  card.  "  It's  pronounced 
'  Vining,'  "  he  said,  as  he  tossed,  it  over  to  the  other. 
"  And  I'll  be  as  frank  with  you.  I'm  just  a  kind  of  a 
loafer,  I  guess,  living  on  my  daddy's  money.  At  the 
club  they  call  me  *  Left-at-the-Post.'  I  never  did  a 
day's  work  in  my  life ;  and  I  haven't  the  heart  to  run 
over  a  chicken  when  I'm  motoring.  It's  a  pretty 
shabby  record,  altogether." 

"  There's  one  thing  you  can  do,"  said  Emerson, 
admiringly ;  "  you  can  carry  duds.  I've  watched  you 
several  times  pass  on  Broadway.  You  look  the  best 
dressed  man  I've  seen.  And  I'll  bet  you  a  gold  mine 
I've  got  $50  worth  more  gent's  furnishings  on  my 
frame  than  you  have.  That's  what  I  wanted  to  see 
you  about.  I  can't  do  the  trick.  Take  a  look  at  me. 
What's  wrong?" 

"  Stand  up,"  said  Vuyning. 

Emerson  arose,  and  slowly  revolved. 

"  You've  been  ;  outfitted,'  "  declared  the  clubman. 
"  Some  Broadway  window-dresser  has  misused  you. 
That's  an  expensive  suit,  though,  Emerson." 

"  A  hundred  dollars,"  said  Emerson. 

"  Twenty  too  much,"  said  Vuyning.  "  Six  months' 
old  in  cut,  one  inch  too  long,  and  half  an  inch  too 
much  lapel.  Your  hat  is  plainly  dated  one  year  ago, 
although  there's  only  a  sixteenth  of  an  inch  lacking 
in  the  brim  to  tell  the  story.  That  English  poke  in 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

your  collar  is  too  short  by  the  distance  between  Troy 
and  London.  A  plain  gold  link  cuff-button  would 
take  all  the  shine  out  of  those  pearl  ones  with  diamond 
settings.  Those  tan  shoes  would  be  exactly  the  arti- 
cles to  work  into  the  heart  of  a  Brooklyn  school- 
ma'am  on  a  two  weeks'  visit  to  Lake  Ronkonkoma.  I 
think  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  blue  silk  sock  em- 
broidered with  russet  lilies  of  the  valley  when  you — 
improperly — drew  up  your  trousers  as  you  sat  down. 
There  are  always  plain  ones  to  be  had  in  the 
stores.  Have  I  hurt  your  feelings,  Emerson?  " 

"  Double  the  ante !  "  cried  the  criticised  one,  greed- 
ily. "  Give  me  more  of  it.  There's  a  way  to  tote  the 
haberdashery,  and  I  want  to  get  wise  to  it.  Say, 
you're  the  right  kind  of  a  swell.  Anything  else  to  the 
queer  about  me  ?  " 

"  Your  tie,"  said  Vuyning,  "  is  tied  with  absolute 
precision  and  correctness." 

"Thanks"  gratefully—"!  spent  over  half  an 
hour  at  it  before  I " 

"  Thereby,"  interrupted  Vuyning,  "  completing 
your  resemblance  to  a  dummy  in  a  Broadway  store 
window." 

"  Yours  truly,"  said  Emerson,  sitting  down  again. 
"  It's  bully  of  you  to  put  me  wise.  I  knew  there  was 
something  wrong,  but  I  couldn't  just  put  my  finger 
on  it.  I  guess  it  comes  by  nature  to  know  how  to  wear 
clothes." 


FROM  EACH  ACCORDING  TO  HIS  ABILITY 

"  Oh,  I  suppose,"  said  Vuyning,  with  a  laugh, 
"  that  my  ancestors  picked  up  the  knack  while 
they  were  peddling  clothes  from  house  to  house  a 
couple  of  hundred  years  ago.  I'm  told  they  did 
that." 

"  And  mine,"  said  Emerson,  cheerfully,  "  were 
making  their  visits  at  night,  I  guess,  and  didn't  have 
a  chance  to  catch  on  to  the  correct  styles." 

"  I  tell  you  what,"  said  Vuyning,  whose  ennui  had 
taken  wings,  "  I'll  take  you  to  my  tailor.  He'll  elim- 
inate the  mark  of  the  beast  from  your  exterior.  That 
is,  if  you  care  to  go  any  further  in  the  way  of 
expense." 

"  Play  'em  to  the  ceiling,"  said  Emerson,  with  a 
boyish  smile  of  joy.  "  I've  got  a  roll  as  big  around  as 
a  barrel  of  black-eyed  peas  and  as  loose  as  the  wrap- 
per of  a  two-f or-fiver.  I  don't  mind  telling  you  that 
I  was  not  touring  among  the  Antipodes  when  the 
burglar-proof  safe  of  the  Farmers'  National  Bank  of 
Butterville,  la.,  flew  open  some  moonless  nights  ago 
to  the  tune  of  $16,000." 

"Aren't  you  afraid,"  asked  Vuyning,  "that  I'll 
call  a  cop  and  hand  you  over  ?  " 

"  You  tell  me,"  said  Emerson,  coolly,  "  why  I  didn't 
keep  them." 

He  laid  Vuyning's  pocketbook  and  watch — the 
Vuyning  100-year-old  family  watch — on  the  table. 

"  Man,"  Said  Vuyning,  revelling,  "  did  you  ever 
[S85] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

hear  the  tale  Kirk  tells  about  the  six-pound  trout 

and  the  old  fisherman  ?  " 

"  Seems  not,"  said  Emerson,  politely.  "I'd  like  to." 
"  But  you  won't,"  said  Vuyning.  "  I've  heard  it 

scores  of  times.  That's  why  I  won't  tell  you.  I  was  just 

thinking  how  much  better  this  is  than  a  club.     Now, 

shall  we  go  to  my  tailor  ?  " 


"  Boys,  and  elderly  gents,"  said  Vuyning,  five  days 
later  at  his  club,  standing  up  against  the  window 
where  his  coterie  was  gathered,  and  keeping  out  the 
breeze,  "  a  friend  of  mine  from  the  West  will  dine 
at  our  table  this  evening." 

"  Will  he  ask  if  we  have  heard  the  latest  from 
Denver  ?  "  said  a  member,  squirming  in  his  chair. 

"  Will  he  mention  the  new  twenty-three-story  Ma- 
sonic Temple,  in  Quincy,  111.  ? "  inquired  another, 
dropping  his  nose-glasses. 

"  Will  he  spring  one  of  those  Western  Mississippi 
River  catfish  stories,  in  which  they  use  yearling  calves 
for  bait  ?  "  demanded  Kirk,  fiercely. 

"  Be  comforted,"  said  Vuyning.  "  He  has  none  of 
the  little  vices.  He  is  a  burglar  and  safe-blower,  and 
a  pal  of  mine." 

"  Oh,  Mary  Ann ! "  said  they.  "  Must  you  always 
adorn  every  statement  with  your  alleged  humor?" 


FROM  EACH  ACCORDING  TO  HIS  ABILITY 

It  came  to  pass  that  at  eight  in  the  evening  a  calm, 
smooth,  brilliant,  affable  man  sat  at  Vuyning's  right 
hand  during  dinner.  And  when  the  ones  who  pass  their 
lives  in  city  streets  spoke  of  skyscrapers  or  of  the 
little  Czar  on  his  far,  frozen  throne,  or  of  insignifi- 
cant fish  from  inconsequential  streams,  this  big,  deep- 
chested  man,  faultlessly  clothed,  and  eyed  like  an  Em- 
peror, disposed  of  their  Lilliputian  chatter  with  a 
wink  of  his  eyelash. 

And  then  he  painted  for  them  with  hard,  broad 
strokes  a  marvellous  lingual  panorama  of  the  West. 
He  stacked  snow-topped  mountains  on  the  table, 
freezing  the  hot  dishes  of  the  waiting  diners.  With  a 
wave  of  his  hand  he  swept  the  clubhouse  into  a  pine- 
crowned  gorge,  turning  the  waiters  into  a  grim  posse, 
and  each  listener  into  a  blood-stained  fugitive,  climb- 
ing with  torn  fingers  upon  the  ensanguined  rocks.  He 
touched  the  table  and  spake,  and  the  five  panted  as 
they  gazed  on  barren  lava  beds,  and  each  man  took 
his  tongue  between  his  teeth  and  felt  his  mouth  bake  at 
the  tale  of  a  land  empty  of  water  and  food.  As  simply 
as  Homer  sang,  while  he  dug  a  tine  of  his  fork  lei- 
surely into  the  tablecloth,  he  opened  a  new  world  to 
their  view,  as  does  one  who  tells  a  child  of  the  Look- 
ing-Glass  Country. 

As  one  of  his  listeners  might  have  spoken  of  tea 
too  strong  at  a  Madison  Square  "  afternoon,"  so  he 
depicted  the  ravages  of  "  redeye  "  in  a  border  town 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

when  the  caballeros  of  the  lariat  and  "  forty-five  "  re- 
duced ennui  to  a  minimum. 

And  then,  with  a  sweep  of  his  white,  unringed 
hands,  he  dismissed  Melpomene,  and  forthwith  Diana 
and  Amaryllis  footed  it  before  the  minds'  eyes  of  the 
clubmen. 

The  savannas  of  the  continent  spread  before  them. 
The  wind,  humming  through  a  hundred  leagues  of 
sage  brush  and  mesquite,  closed  their  ears  to  the  city's 
staccato  noises.  He  told  them  of  camps,  of  ranches 
marooned  in  a  sea  of  fragrant  prairie  blossoms,  of 
gallops  in  the  stilly  night  that  Apollo  would  have 
forsaken  his  daytime  steeds  to  enjoy;  he  read  them 
the  great,  rough  epic  of  the  cattle  and  the  hills  that 
have  not  been  spoiled  by  the  hand  of  man,  the  mason. 
His  words  were  a  telescope  to  the  city  men,  whose  eyes 
had  looked  upon  Youngs  town,  O.,  and  whose  tongues 
had  called  it  «  West." 

In  fact,  Emerson  had  them  "  going." 

The  next  morning  at  ten  he  met  Vuyning,  by  ap- 
pointment, at  a  Forty-second  Street  cafe. 

Emerson  was  to  leave  for  the  West  that  day.  He 
wore  a  suit  of  dark  cheviot  that  looked  to  have  been 
draped  upon  him  by  an  ancient  Grecian  tailor  who 
was  a  few  thousand  years  ahead  of  the  styles. 

"  Mr.  Vuyning,"  said  he,  with  the  clear,  ingenuous 
smile  of  the  successful  "  crook,"  "  it's  up  to  me  to 


FROM  EACH  ACCORDING  TO  HIS  ABILITY 

go  the  limit  for  you  any  time  I  can  do  so.  You're  the 
real  thing ;  and  if  I  can  ever  return  the  favor,  you  bet 
your  life  I'll  do  it." 

"What  was  that  cow-puncher's  name?"  asked 
Vuyning,  "  who  used  to  catch  a  mustang  by  the  nose 
and  mane,  and  throw  him  till  he  put  the  bridle  on?  " 

"  Bates,"  said  Emerson. 

"  Thanks,"  said  Vuyning.  "  I  thought  it  was  Yates. 
Oh,  about  that  toggery  business — I'd  forgotten 
that." 

"  I've  been  looking  for  some  guy  to  put  me  on  the 
right  track  for  years,"  said  Emerson.  "  You're  the 
goods,  duty  free,  and  half-way  to  the  warehouse  in  a 
red  wagon." 

"  Bacon,  toasted  on  a  green  willow  switch  over  red 
coals,  ought  to  put  broiled  lobsters  out  of  business," 
said  Vuyning.  "  And  you  say  a  horse  at  the  end  of  a 
thirty-foot  rope  can't  pull  a  ten-inch  stake  out  of  wet 
prairie?  Well,  good-bye,  old  man,  if  you  must  be  off." 

At  one  o'clock  Vuyning  had  luncheon  with  Miss  Al- 
lison by  previous  arrangement. 

For  thirty  minutes  he  babbled  to  her,  unaccounta- 
bly, of  ranches,  horses,  canons,  cyclones,  round-ups, 
Rocky  Mountains  and  beans  and  bacon.  She  looked 
at  him  with  wondering  and  half -terrified  eyes. 

"  I  was  going  to  propose  again  to-day,"  said  Vuy- 
ning, cheerily,  "  but  I  won't.  I've  worried  you  often 
enough.  You  know  dad  has  a  ranch  in  Colorado. 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

What's  the  good  of  staying  here?  Jumping  jonquils! 
but  it's  great  out  there.  I'm  going  to  start  next 
Tuesday." 

"  No,  you  won't,"  said  Miss  Allison. 

"  What?  "  said  Vuyning. 

"  Not  alone,"  said  Miss  Allison,  dropping  a  tear 
upon  her  salad.  "  What  do  you  think?  " 

"  Betty ! "  exclaimed  Vuyning,  "  what  do  you 
mean  ?  " 

"  I'll  go  too,"  said  Miss  Allison,  forcibly. 

Vuyning  filled  her  glass  with  Apollinaris. 

"  Here's  to  Rowdy  the  Dude !  "  he  gave — a  toast 
mysterious. 

"  Don't  know  him,"  said  Miss  Allison ;  "  but  if  he's 
your  friend,  Jimmy — here  goes !  " 


[228] 


THE  MEMENTO 

MlSS  LYNNETTE  D'ARMANDE  turned  her 
back  on  Broadway.  This  was  but  tit  for  tat,  because 
Broadway  had  often  done  the  same  thing  to  Miss 
D'Armande.  Still,  the  "  tats  "  seemed  to  have  it,  for 
the  ex-leading  lady  of  the  "  Reaping  the  Whirlwind  " 
company  had  everything  to  ask  of  Broadway,  while 
there  was  no  vice-versa. 

So  Miss  Lynnette  D'Armande  turned  the  back  of 
her  chair  to  her  window  that  overlooked  Broadway, 
and  sat  down  to  stitch  in  time  the  lisle- thread  heel 
of  a  black  silk  stocking.  The  tumult  and  glitter  of  the 
roaring  Broadway  beneath  her  window  had  no  charm 
for  her ;  what  she  greatly  desired  was  the  stifling  air 
of  a  dressing-room  on  that  fairyland  street  and  the 
roar  of  an  audience  gathered  in  that  capricious  quar- 
ter. In  the  meantime,  those  stockings  must  not  be 
neglected.  Silk  does  wear  out  so,  but — after  all,  isn't 
it  just  the  only  goods  there  is  ? 

The  Hotel  Thalia  looks  on  Broadway  as  Marathon 
looks  on  the  sea.  It  stands  like  a  gloomy  cliff  above 
the  whirlpool  where  the  tides  of  two  great  thorough- 
fares clash.  Here  the  player-bands  gather  at  the  end 
of  their  wanderings,  to  loosen  the  buskin  and  dust  the 
[229] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

sock.  Thick  in  the  streets  around  it  are  booking- 
offices,  theatres,  agents,  schools,  and  the  lobster- 
palaces  to  which  those  thorny  paths  lead. 

Wandering  through  the  eccentric  halls  of  the  dim 
and  fusty  Thalia,  you  seem  to  have  found  yourself 
in  some  great  ark  or  caravan  about  to  sail,  or  fly,  or 
roll  away  on  wheels.  About  the  house  lingers  a  sense 
of  unrest,  of  expectation,  of  transientness,  even  of 
anxiety  and  apprehension.  The  halls  are  a  labyrinth. 
Without  a  guide,  you  wander  like  a  lost  soul  in  a  Sam 
Loyd  puzzle. 

Turning  any  corner,  a  dressing-sack  or  a  cul-de- 
sac  may  bring  you  up  short.  You  meet  alarming 
tragedians  stalking  in  bath-robes  in  search  of  ru- 
mored bathrooms.  From  hundreds  of  rooms  come  the 
buzz  of  talk,  scraps  of  new  and  old  songs,  and  the 
ready  laughter  of  the  convened  players. 

Summer  has  come ;  their  companies  have  disbanded, 
and  they  take  their  rest  in  their  favorite  caravansary, 
while  they  besiege  the  managers  for  engagements  for 
the  coming  season. 

At  this  hour  of  the  afternoon  the  day's  work  of 
tramping  the  rounds  of  the  agents'  offices  is  over.  Past 
you,  as  you  ramble  distractedly  through  the  mossy 
halls,  flit  audible  visions  of  houris,  with  veiled,  starry 
eyes,  flying  tag-ends  of  things  and  a  swish  of  silk, 
bequeathing  to  the  dull  hallways  an  odor  of  gaiety 
and  a  memory  of  frangipanni.  Serious  young  come- 
[230] 


THE  MEMENTO 

dians,  with  versatile  Adam's  apples,  gather  in  door- 
ways and  talk  of  Booth.  Far-reaching  from 
somewhere  comes  the  smell  of  ham  and  red  cabbage, 
and  the  crash  of  dishes  on  the  American  plan. 

The  indeterminate  hum  of  life  in  the  Thalia  is 
enlivened  by  the  discreet  popping — at  reasonable 
and  salubrious  intervals — of  beer-bottle  corks.  Thus 
punctuated,  life  in  the  genial  hostel  scans  easily — the 
comma  being  the  favorite  mark,  semicolons  frowned 
upon,  and  periods  barred. 

Miss  D'Armande's  room  was  a  small  one.  There  was 
room  for  her  rocker  between  the  dresser  and  the  wash- 
stand  if  it  were  placed  longitudinally.  On  the  dresser 
were  its  usual  accoutrements,  plus  the  ex-leading 
lady's  collected  souvenirs  of  road  engagements  and 
photographs  of  her  dearest  and  best  professional 
friends. 

At  one  of  these  photographs  she  looked  twice  or 
thrice  as  she  darned,  and  smiled  friendlily. 

"  I'd  like  to  know  where  Lee  is  just  this  minute," 
she  said,  rialf-aloud. 

If  you  had  been  privileged  to  view  the  photograph 
thus  flattered,  you  would  have  thought  at  the  first 
glance  that  you  saw  the  picture  of  a  many-petalled 
white  flower,  blown  through  the  air  by  a  storm.  But 
the  floral  kingdom  was  not  responsible  for  that  swirl 
of  petalous  whiteness. 

You  saw  the  filmy,  brief  skirt  of  Miss  Rosalie  Ray 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

as  she  made  a  complete  heels-over-head  turn  in  her 
wistaria-entwined  swing,  far  out  from  the  stage,  high 
above  the  heads  of  the  audience.  You  saw  the  camera's 
inadequate  representation  of  the  graceful,  strong 
kick,  with  which  she,  at  this  exciting  moment,  sent 
flying,  high  and  far,  the  yellow  silk  garter  that  each 
evening  spun  from  her  agile  limb  and  descended  upon 
the  delighted  audience  below. 

You  saw,  too,  amid  the  black-clothed,  mainly  mas- 
culine patrons  of  select  vaudeville  a  hundred  hands 
raised  with  the  hope  of  staying  the  flight  of  the  bril- 
liant aerial  token. 

Forty  weeks  of  the  best  circuits  this  act  had 
brought  Miss  Rosalie  Ray,  for  each  of  two  years.  She 
did  other  things  during  her  twelve  minutes — a  song 
and  dance,  imitations  of  two  or  three  actors  who  are 
but  imitations  of  themselves,  and  a  balancing  feat 
with  a  step-ladder  and  feather-duster;  but  when  the 
blossom-decked  swing  was  let  down  from  the  flies,  arid 
Miss  Rosalie  sprang  smiling  into  the  seat,  with  the 
golden  circlet  conspicuous  in  the  place  whence  it  was 
soon  to  slide  and  become  a  soaring  and  coveted  guer- 
don— then  it  was  that  the  audience  rose  in  its  seat 
as  a  single  man — or  presumably  so — and  indorsed 
the  specialty  that  made  Miss  Ray's  name  a  favorite 
in  the  booking-offices. 

At  the  end  of  the  two  years  Miss  Ray  suddenly  an- 
nounced to  her  dear  friend,  Miss  D'Armande,  that 


THE  MEMENTO 

she  was  going  to  spend  the  summer  at  an  antediluvian 
village  on  the  north  shore  of  Long  Island,  and  that 
the  stage  would  see  her  no  more. 

Seventeen  minutes  after  Miss  Lynnette  D'Ar- 
mande  had  expressed  her  wish  to  know  the  where- 
abouts of  her  old  chum,  there  were  sharp  raps  at  her 
door. 

Doubt  not  that  it  was  Rosalie  Ray.  At  the  shrill 
command  to  enter  she  did  so,  with  something  of  a 
tired  flutter,  and  dropped  a  heavy  hand-bag  on  the 
floor.  Upon  my  word,  it  was  Rosalie,  in  a  loose,  travel- 
stained  automobileless  coat,  closely  tied  brown  veil 
with  yard-long,  flying  ends,  gray  walking-suit  and 
tan  oxfords  with  lavender  overgaiters. 

When  she  threw  off  her  veil  and  hat,  you  saw  a 
pretty  enough  face,  now  flushed  and  disturbed  by 
some  unusual  emotion,  and  restless,  large  eyes  with 
discontent  marring  their  brightness.  A  heavy  pile  of 
dull  auburn  hair,  hastily  put  up,  was  escaping  in 
crinkly,  waving  strands  and  curling,  small  locks  from 
the  confining  combs  and  pins. 

The  meeting  of  the  two  was  not  marked  by  Hie 
effusion  vocal,  gymnastical,  osculatory  and  catecheti- 
cal that  distinguishes  the  greetings  of  their  unpro- 
fessional sisters  in  society.  There  was  a  brief  clinch, 
two  simultaneous  labial  dabs  and  they  stood  on  the 
same  footing  of  the  old  days.  Very  much  like  the  short 
salutations  of  soldiers  or  of  travellers  in  foreign  wilds 
[233] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

are  the  welcomes  between  the  strollers  at  the  corners 
of  their  criss-cross  roads. 

"  I've  got  the  hall-room  two  flights  up  above 
yours,"  said  Rosalie,  "  but  I  came  straight  to  see  you 
before  going  up.  I  didn't  know  you  were  here  till  they 
told  me." 

"  I've  been  in  since  the  last  of  April,"  said  Lyn- 
nette.  "  And  I'm  going  on  the  road  with  a  '  Fatal  In- 
heritance '  company.  We  open  next  week  in  Elizabeth. 
I  thought  you'd  quit  the  stage,  Lee.  Tell  me  about 
yourself." 

Rosalie  settled  herself  with  a  skilful  wriggle  on 
the  top  of  Miss  D'Armande's  wardrobe  trunk,  and 
leaned  her  head  against  the  papered  wall.  From  long 
habit,  thus  can  peripatetic  leading  ladies  and  their 
sisters  make  themselves  as  comfortable  as  though  the 
deepest  armchairs  embraced  them. 

"  I'm  going  to  tell  you,  Lynn,"  she  said,  with  a 
strangely  sardonic  and  yet  carelessly  resigned  look  on 
her  youthful  face.  "  And  then  to-morrow  I'll  strike 
the  old  Broadway  trail  again,  and  wear  some  more 
paint  off  the  chairs-  in  the  agents'  offices.  If  anybody 
had  told  me  any  time  in  the  last  three  months  up  to 
four  o'clock  this  afternoon  that  I'd  ever  listen  to  that 
'  Leave-your-name-and-address  '  rot  of  the  booking 
bunch  again,  I'd  have  given  'em  the  real  Mrs.  Fiske 
laugh.  Loan  me  a  handkerchief,  Lynn.  Gee !  but  those 
Long  Island  trains  are  fierce.  I've  got  enough  soft- 


THE  MEMENTO 

coal  cinders  on  my  face  to  go  on  and  play  Topsy 
without  using  the  cork.  And,  speaking  of  corks — got 
anything  to  drink,  Lynn?  " 

Miss  D'Armande  opened  a  door  of  the  wash-stand 
and  took  out  a  bottle. 

"  There's  nearly  a  pint  of  Manhattan.  There's  a 
cluster  of  carnations  in  the  drinking  glass,  but " 

"  Oh,  pass  the  bottle.  Save  the  glass  for  company. 
Thanks !  That  hits  the  spot.  The  same  to  you.  My 
first  drink  in  three  months  ! 

"  Yes,  Lynn,  I  quit  the  stage  at  the  end  of  last 
season.  I  quit  it  because  I  was  sick  of  the  life.  And 
especially  because  my  heart  and  soul  were  sick  of  men 
— of  the  kind  of  men  we  stage  people  have  to  be  up 
against.  You  know  what  the  game  is  to  us — it's  a 
fight  against  'em  all  the  way  down  the  line  from  the 
manager  who  wants  us  to  try  his  new  motor-car  to  the 
bill-posters  who  want  to  call  us  by  our  front  names. 

"  And  the  men  we  have  to  meet  after  the  show  are 
the  worst  of  all.  The  stage-door  kind,  and  the  mana- 
ger's friends  who  take  us  to  supper  and  show  their 
diamonds  and  talk  about  seeing  '  Dan '  and  '  Dave  ' 
and  '  Charlie  '  for  us.  They're  beasts,  and  I  hate  'em. 

"  I  tell  you,  Lynn,  it's  the  girls  like  us  on  the  stage 
that  ought  to  be  pitied.  It's  girls  from  good  homes 
that  are  honestly  ambitious  and  work  hard  to  rise  in 
the  profession,  but  never  do  get  there.  You  hear  a  lot 
of  sympathy  sloshed  around  on  chorus  girls  and 
[235] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

their  fifteen  dollars  a  week.  Piffle !  There  ain't  a  sor- 
row in  the  chorus  that  a  lobster  cannot  heal. 

"  If  there's  any  tears  to  shed,  let  'em  fall  for  the 
actress  that  gets  a  salary  of  from  thirty  to  forty-five 
dollars  a  week  for  taking  a  leading  part  in  a  bum 
show.  She  knows  she'll  never  do  any  better;  but  she 
hangs  on  for  years,  hoping  for  the  '  chance '  that 
never  comes. 

"  And  the  fool  plays  we  have  to  work  in !  Having 
another  girl  roll  you  around  the  stage  by  the  hind  legs 
in  a  '  Wheelbarrow  Chorus  '  in  a  musical  comedy  is 
dignified  drama  compared  with  the  idiotic  things  I've 
had  to  do  in  the  thirty-centers. 

"  But  what  I  hated  most  was  the  men — the  men 
leering  and  blathering  at  you  across  tables,  trying 
to  buy  you  with  Wiirzburger  or  Extra  Dry,  accord- 
ing to  their  estimate  of  your  price.  And  the  men  in  the 
audiences,  clapping,  yelling,  snarling,  crowding, 
writhing,  gloating — like  a  lot  of  wild  beasts,  with 
their  eyes  fixed  on  you,  ready  to  eat  you  up  if  you 
come  in  reach  of  their  claws.  Oh,  how  I  hate  'em ! 

"  Well,  I'm  not  telling  you  much  about  myself,  am 
I,  Lynn? 

"  I  had  two  hundred  dollars  saved  up,  and  I  cut 
the  stage  the  first  of  the  summer.  I  went  over  on  Long 
Island  and  found  the  sweetest  little  village  that  ever 
was,  called  Soundport,  right  on  the  water.  I  was 
going  to  spend  the  summer  there,  and  study  up  on 
[236] 


THE  MEMENTO 

elocution,  and  try  to  get  a  class  in  the  fall.  There 
was  an  old  widow  lady  with  a  cottage  near  the  beach 
who  sometimes  rented  a  room  or  two  just  for  com- 
pany, and  she  took  me  in.  She  had  another  boarder, 
too — the  Reverend  Arthur  Lyle. 

"  Yes,  he  was  the  head-liner.  You're  on,  Lynn.  I'll 
tell  you  all  of  it  in  a  minute.  It's  only  a  one-act 
play. 

"  The  first  time  he  walked  on,  Lynn,  I  felt  myself 
going ;  the  first  lines  he  spoke,  he  had  me.  He  was  dif- 
ferent from  the  men  in  audiences.  He  was  tall  and 
slim,  and  you  never  heard  him  come  in  the  room,  but 
you  felt  him.  He  had  a  face  like  a  picture  of  a  knight 
— like  one  of  that  Round  Table  bunch — and  a  voice 
like  a  'cello  solo.  And  his  manners ! 

"  Lynn,  if  you'd  take  John  Drew  in  his  best  draw- 
ing-room scene  and  compare  the  two,  you'd  have 
John  arrested  for  disturbing  the  peace. 

"  I'll  spare  you  the  particulars ;  but  in  less  than  a 
month  Arthur  and  I  were  engaged.  He  preached  at  a 
little  one-night  stand  of  a  Methodist  church.  There 
was  to  be  a  parsonage  the  size  of  a  lunch-wagon,  and 
hens  and  honeysuckles  when  we  were  married.  Ar- 
thur used  to  preach  to  me  a  good  deal  about  Heaven, 
but  he  never  could  get  my  mind  quite  off  those  honey- 
suckles and  hens. 

"No;  I  didn't  tell  him  I'd  been  on  the  stage.  I 
hated  the  business  and  all  that  went  with  it;  I'd 
[237] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

cut  it  out  forever,  and  I  didn't  see  any  use  of  stirring 
things  up.  I  was  a  good  girl,  and  I  didn't  have 
anything  to  confess,  except  being  an  elocutionist, 
and  that  was  about  all  the  strain  my  conscience  would 
stand. 

"  Oh,  I  tell  you,  Lynn,  I  was  happy.  I  sang  in  the 
choir  and  attended  the  sewing  society,  and  recited 
that  '  Annie  Laurie  '  thing  with  the  whistling  stunt  in 
it,  '  in  a  manner  bordering  upon  the  professional,'  as 
the  weekly  village  paper  reported  it.  And  Arthur  and 
I  went  rowing,  and  walking  in  the  woods,  and  clam- 
ming, and  that  poky  little  village  seemed  to  me  the 
best  place  in  the  world.  I'd  have  been  happy  to  live 
there  always,  too,  if 

"  But  one  morning  old  Mrs.  Gurley,  the  widow 
lady,  got  gossipy  while  I  was  helping  her  string  beans 
on  the  back  porch,  and  began  to  gush  information, 
as  folks  who  rent  out  their  rooms  usually  do.  Mr.  Lyle 
was  her  idea  of  a  saint  on  earth — as  he  was  mine,  too. 
She  went  over  all  his  virtues  and  graces,  and 
wound  up  by  telling  me  that  Arthur  had  had  an  ex- 
tremely romantic  love-affair,  not  long  before,  that  had 
ended  unhappily.  She  didn't  seem  to  be  on  to  the  de- 
tails, but  she  knew  that  he  had  been  hit  pretty  hard. 
He  was  paler  and  thinner,  she  said,  and  he  had  some 
kind  of  a  remembrance  or  keepsake  of  the  lady  in  a 
little  rosewood  box  that  he  kept  locked  in  his  desk 
drawer  in  his  study. 


THE  MEMENTO 

" '  Several  times,'  says  she,  '  I've  seen  him 
gloomerin'  over  that  box  of  evenings,  and  he  al- 
ways locks  it  up  right  away  if  anybody  comes  into 
the  room.' 

"  Well,  you  can  imagine  how  long  it  was  before  I 
got  Arthur  by  the  wrist  and  led  him  down  stage  and 
hissed  in  his  ear. 

"  That  same  afternoon  we  were  lazying  around  in  a 
boat  among  the  water-lilies  at  the  edge  of  the  bay. 

"  '  Arthur,'  says  I,  c  you  never  told  me  you'd  had 
another  love-affair.  But  Mrs.  Gurley  did,'  I  went  on, 
to  let  him  know  I  knew.  I  hate  to  hear  a  man  lie. 

"  '  Before  you  came,'  says  he,  looking  me  frankly 
in  the  eye,  '  there  was  a  previous  affection — a  strong 
one.  Since  you  know  of  it,  I  will  be  perfectly  candid 
with  you.' 

"  '  I  am  waiting,'  says  I. 

"  '  My  dear  Ida,'  says  Arthur — of  course  I  went 
by  my  real  name,  while  I  was  in  Soundport — 
6  this  former  affection  was  a  spiritual  one,  in 
fact.  Although  the  lady  aroused  my  deepest  senti- 
ments, and  was,  as  I  thought,  my  ideal  woman,  I 
never  met  her,  and  never  spoke  to  her.  It  was  an  ideal 
love.  My  love  for  you,  while  no  less  ideal,  is  different. 
You  wouldn't  let  that  come  between  us.' 

"  '  Was  she  pretty?  '  I  asked. 

"  '  She  was  very  beautiful,'  said  Arthur. 

"  '  Did  you  see  her  often  ?  '  I  asked. 
[239] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

"  '  Something  like  a  dozen  times,'  says  he. 

"  '  Always  from  a  distance?  '  says  I. 

"  '  Always  from  quite  a  distance,'  says  he. 

"  <  And  you  loved  her?  '  I  asked. 

" '  She  seemed  my  ideal  of  beauty  and  grace — and 
soul,'  says  Arthur. 

"  '  And  this  keepsake  that  you  keep  under  lock  and 
key,  and  moon  over  at  times,  is  that  a  remembrance 
from  her  ?  ' 

" '  A  memento,'  says  Arthur,  '  that  I  have 
treasured.' 

"  '  Did  she  send  it  to  you?  ' 

"  '  It  came  to  me  from  her,'  says  he. 

"  '  In  a  roundabout  way  ?  '  I  asked. 

"  '  Somewhat  roundabout,'  says  he, '  and  yet  rather 
direct.' 

"  <  Why  didn't  you  ever  meet  her?  '  I  asked.  «  Were 
your  positions  in  life  so  different  ?  ' 

"  '  She  was  far  above  me,'  says  Arthur.  '  Now,  Ida,' 
he  goes  on,  '  this  is  all  of  the  past.  You're  not  going 
to  be  jealous,  are  you?  ' 

"  '  Jealous ! '  says  I.  '  Why,  man,  what  are  you 
talking  about?  It  makes  me  think  ten  times  as  much 
of  you  as  I  did  before  I  knew  about  it.' 

"  And  it  did,  Lynn — if  you   can   understand   it. 

That  ideal  love  was  a  new»one  on  me,  but  it  struck  me 

as  being  the  most  beautiful  and  glorious  thing  I'd 

ever  heard  of.  Think  of  a  man  loving  a  woman  he'd 

[240] 


THE  MEMENTO 

never  even  spoken  to,  and  being  faithful  just  to  what 
his  mind  and  heart  pictured  her !  Oh,  it  sounded  great 
to  me.  The  men  I'd  always  known  come  at  you  with 
either  diamonds,  knock-out-drops  or  a  raise  of  salary, 
— and  their  ideals ! — well,  we'll  say  no  more. 

"  Yes,  it  made  me  think  more  of  Arthur  than  I  did 
before.  I  couldn't  be  jealous  of  that  far-away  divin- 
ity that  he  used  to  worship,  for  I  was  going  to  have 
him  myself.  And  I  began  to  look  upon  him  as  a  saint 
on  earth,  just  as  old  lady  Gurley  did. 

"  About  four  o'clock  this  afternoon  a  man  came  to 
the  house  for  Arthur  to  go  and  see  somebody  that  was 
sick  among  his  church  bunch.  Old  lady  Gurley  was 
taking  her  afternoon  snore  on  a  couch,  so  that  left  me 
pretty  much  alone. 

"  In  passing  by  Arthur's  study  I  looked  in,  and 
say  his  bunch  of  keys  hanging  in  the  drawer  of  his 
desk,  where  he'd  forgotten  'em.  Well,  I  guess  we're 
all  to  the  Mrs.  Bluebeard  now  and  then,  ain't  we, 
Lynn?  I  made  up  my  mind  I'd  have  a  look  at  that 
memento  he  kept  so  secret.  Not  that  I  cared  what  it 
was — it  was  just  curiosity. 

"  While  I  was  opening  the  drawer  I  imagined  one 
or  two  things  it  might  be.  I  thought  it  might  be  a 
dried  rosebud  she'd  dropped  down  to  him  from 
a  balcony,  or  maybe  a  picture  of  her  he'd  cut 
out  of  a  magazine,  she  being  so  high  up  in  the 
world. 

[241] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

"  I  opened  the  drawer,  and  there  was  the  rosewood 
casket  about  the  size  of  a  gent's  collar-box.  I  found 
the  little  key  in  the  bunch  that  fitted  it,  and  unlocked 
it  and  raised  the  lid. 

"  I  took  one  look  at  that  memento,  and  then  I  went 
to  my  room  and  packed  my  trunk.  I  threw  a  few 
things  into  my  grip,  gave  my  hair  a  flirt  or  two  with 
a  side-comb,  put  on  my  hat,  and  went  in  and  gave  the 
old  lady's  foot  a  kick.  I'd  tried  awfully  hard  to  use 
proper  and  correct  language  while  I  was  there  for 
Arthur's  sake,  and  I  had  the  habit  down  pat,  but  it 
left  me  then. 

"  '  Stop  sawing  gourds,'  says  I,  '  and  sit  up  and 
take  notice.  The  ghost's  about  to  walk.  I'm  going 
away  from  here,  and  I  owe  you  eight  dollars.  The 
expressman  will  call  for  my  trunk.' 

"  I  handed  her  the  money. 

"  '  Dear  me,  Miss  Crosby ! '  says  she.  '  Is  any- 
thing wrong?  I  thought  you  were  pleased  here. 
Dear  me,  young  women  are  so  hard  to  understand, 
and  so  different  from  what  you  expect  'em 
to  be.' 

"  '  You're  damn  right,'  says  I.  '  Some  of  'em  are. 
But  you  can't  say  that  about  men.  When  you  know 
one  man  you  know  'em  all!  That  settles  the  human- 
race  question.' 

"  And  then  I  caught  the  four-thirty-eight,  soft- 
coal  unlimited ;  and  here  I  am." 
[242] 


THE  MEMENTO 

"  You  didn't  tell  me  what  was  in  the  box,  Lee,"  said 
Miss  D'Armande,  anxiously. 

"  One  of  those  yellow  silk  garters  that  I  used  to 
kick  off  my  leg  into  the  audience  during  that  old 
vaudeville  swing  act  of  mine.  Is  there  any  of  the 
Cocktail  left,  Lynn?  " 


THE  END 


[243] 


3TOBED  AT  NRLF 


THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  SANTA  CRUZ 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  DATE  stamped  below. 


/ 


3 2106 :  00207  9736 


